


For Every Solution a Problem

by Nanna_Jemima



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Drama, F/F, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Love, M/M, Multi, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-07-26 21:46:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7591588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanna_Jemima/pseuds/Nanna_Jemima
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world has been ravaged by two recent wars and our friends are finding their places in this new day and age. Some things must change, while others stay the same. How far will individuals be willing to go to enact the changes they want? How far are they willing to go to help a friend? Or someone who is not even that? Some have sins to atone for and some have sins for which you can never truly atone. This is my most ambitious work yet, and the main plotlines, of which there are two, will revolve around the witchers and the vampires respectively - naturally they will intersect. As in Sapkowski's style there will be multiple main characters, multiple POVs, and jumps in the chronology for narrative purposes. I am trying to write this as loyal to the originals as I can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will be consistent with events in my works A Misty Departure and In The Face of Isolation. The events of especially the latter will be referenced in this one and will have a great deal of importance. I will attempt to write this fic, so that it should not be absolutely necessary to read either of the other ones to understand the events of this one, but in case updates do not come quick enough to your liking, I would be immensely pleased and grateful if you graced those other works of mine with your readership. Thank you. ~ Nanna Jemima

_In our darkest hour, in my deepest despair, will you still care?_

_Will you be there?_

_In my trials, and my tribulations,_

_through our doubts, and frustrations,_

_in my violence, in my turbulence, through my fear, and my confessions,_

_in my anguish and my pain,_

_through my joy and my sorrow,_

_in the promise of another tomorrow,_

_I'll never let you part,_

_for you're always in my heart._

**Michael Jackson**

 

 

From his shadowed hiding place he watched them arrive, the magic ladies. He could not even get a good look at them. The grown-ups had not told him what it was all about, but he knew it had to do with the strange lady in the dungeon. They had forbidden him to go there, but he had snuck down there anyway one night. It was too exciting for him to leave it alone and pretend there was no one down there.

He had been scared, but he would never admit it to anyone. Down he went, wanting to see what it was that made those scary noises sometimes. He had waited until there hadn't been any of those noises for several days. He expected to find a sleeping monster, maybe something they got ingredients from for their potions; definitely it had to be something dangerous.

What he had found there had been a woman, he had nick-named her the dungeon lady. He thought his teacher had some bad scars, but this woman looked like she should not even be alive. She had spoken to him; surprised him with her kind words, spoken in a rough voice, hoarse from screaming. She was like the others, and she was not. Her eyes were sad and full of pain, but she had smiled and been nice to him.

It was very strange, and she had refused to tell him much about herself. Instead she had asked about him. She had wanted to know if he liked it here, if his teacher was good to him. He had gotten angry with her for saying that; for suggesting his teacher might not be good to him. He had eventually told her about the things he liked, the things he didn't like so much, the things they taught him, and though she had said she was happy that he was happy, she had still seemed so sad. And she had never approached the bars of her cell to come near him. She always stayed a few paces in.

Forgetting the scary noises from the other nights, he had even offered to help get her out of there, but she had laughed at him, and told him that it was very important that she stay right where she was. At least for now, she had said. But she had thanked him for his offer and told him he would make a fine example for others.

And now there were two sorceresses heading down to the dungeon, and everyone looked grim. He was so preoccupied by trying to figure out what the adults were doing that he did not see the other boy. Well, he had seen him come through the portal with the blonde one, but then he had lost track of him.

“Hello,” the low voice of the older boy nearly made him jump out of his skin. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you.”

“It's alright. You came with the blonde one, right? Who are you?”

“I'm Eston. And yes. I'm her... apprentice. You?”

“Oh right, I'm Ijsbrand. I'm kind of an apprentice here, too. To him.” He pointed, indicating the biggest person in the room with no small amount of pride.

“Oh. He looks mean,” Eston said.

“He isn't. Well, not to me anyway.” Ijsbrand looked a bit more closely at the boy. He seemed to be about sixteen years old, with brown hair a shade or two darker than his own.

“That's good. How old are you?”

Ijsbrand sighed. “Only eight.” He saw Eston's eyebrows lift in surprise.

“You're pretty big for your age, then. I thought you were twelve, for sure.”

“Yeah well, you also thought he would be mean.” Ijsbrand pointed out and Eston looked a bit ashamed. “Are you here to help as well?”

“I, uhh, yes, since she asked me to come, I suspect she will need my help in the laboratory here.”

Ijsbrand nodded and tried to look wiser than he felt. “The lady in the dungeon. It's about her, right? What will happen to her?”

“It's not about her. Not yet anyway. It's about him.” Eston pointed out the strange, sullen one, who was only ever nice to Ijsbrand and hostile to everyone else.

“They won't hurt him, will they? I like him. He's nice to me.”

“What?” Eston looked shocked. “No, no, of course not. They'll try to help him. Why would you think they would harm anyone?”

“Because Lady Yennefer has been looking so mean the last few times she's been here to see the dungeon lady. She seems angry all the time.”

“Oh.” Eston glanced between Ijsbrand and the group of adults. “No, I think she's just worried. I know my mistress is.”

“Worried? About what? This?”

“Yes. And about the others.”

“Ohhh, I knew Geralt and Lambert were out doing something dangerous! I knew it! But no one will tell me what it is. Do you know where they are? Is Ciri with them? I like her.”

Eston shook his head. “I don't know precisely. Only that they're not in this world, and that Ciri and Miss Merigold is with them. And they should have been back a while ago. And that's why people are on edge.”

“Who's Miss Merigold?”

“You haven't met her?”

Ijsbrand shook his head and shrugged. “I haven't been here very long.”

“I thought you said you were an apprentice here?” It was clear that Eston suspected lies.

“Well, yeah, but I'm apprenticed to him, and he and I only arrived here a little while ago. And I haven't had time to meet everyone yet, and everyone comes and goes and is busy all the time. At least now I know why it's been so long since Ciri was here. I miss her. She always has time to talk to me. Lambert, too, but he left with Geralt and Ciri, so now everyone who is left is busy and doesn't have time to do anything other than give orders.” Ijsbrand realised he had said far more than he intended, and immediately shut his mouth.

Eston reached out and gave his shoulder a squeeze. He was fairly certain it was supposed to be comforting, but the boy was stronger than he looked, and it almost hurt. He didn't say anything, though.

“Hey,” Eston began, “why don't you come with us? This will probably take several days, so I'll be glad for someone to talk to, when I'm not actively helping them out.”

“Sure,” Ijsbrand agreed hesitantly, “if they don't throw me out. I don't think they want me to know what's going on.”

“But you don't know for certain that they will. So until they do, come on,” the older boy urged him.

“If they do, will you then come find me and train with me, when you can? Training alone is boring.”

Eston lit up in an unmistakable grin that he quickly schooled to a more tight smile. “Absolutely!” Ijsbrand wondered at the seemingly guarded manner of the boy, but figured he was just a bit unused to being around other kids and didn't want to embarass himself – or his mistress – by showing too much enthusiasm – just like Ijsbrand himself.

When they set off to join the adults, he felt considerably more cheerful than he had in a while. He knew it was too soon to tell, but he felt confident he was about to make a new friend. A good one.

 


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note, this chapter as well as chapters to come contain major spoilers for my other fic, In the Face of Isolation. If you do not care, then by all means read on, you have been warned. This chapter takes off immediately after the end of that fic, and I have recycled a very long passage in the hopes that it won't be necessary to read a small novel-length fic for this one to make sense.

Eskel's head dropped into his hands, as he muttered a quiet “fuck”. Plenty loud enough for Geralt to hear, and he suspected Eskel had meant it to be.

Geralt held out a hand, indicating the letter. “May I?” Eskel didn't respond. The contents must have hit him harder than expected for him to not even try to deflect a bad mood with a lame joke. “Eskel?”

The dark head barely lifted from where it was resting in the calloused hands. “Huh, yeah. Sorry. Sure. Here.” His brother's thoughts were far away, clearly, but he handed him the letter at least.

Geralt took it and quickly skimmed through it's contents. Combined with the scraps of Eskel's tale he had been awake enough to hear ten years ago, it was obvious what was troubling him. This was not going to be an easy thing to fix. Even now after a decade of getting used to Vesemir's absence, he found himself wishing their old mentor was still there. He might have known how to go about this.

“Just let me know what you need,” he offered, though he knew it was entirely insufficient after this mouthful. That meeting all those years ago had meant a lot to his brother, and Geralt knew better than anyone, what it meant to sit helplessly by, not being able to influence events. His offer might be entirely in vain.

Eskel did nod, though he was still looking at the floor between his feet. “I'll go see if I can find her there. If nothing else, she deserves a proper burial. I owe her at least that much. She helped me more than I think she ever realised.”

“Yeah. Makes sense. Anything I can do?”

Eskel sighed. “If... if she isn't dead yet, then she'll need help.”

“Obviously.”

“Chances aren't good. They're piss-poor, it seems, but if there is a chance we can help her...” he trailed off, but Geralt understood well enough.

“Then we will. Want me to look into the Trials and mutagens and see what we have on the subject?” It was knowledge that had not seen any use at all for well over fifty years, and if they had any left, it might not be useful anyway, but they could try.

“Would you?” Eskel asked.

“'Course,” Geralt answered and elbowed Eskel lightly in the arm, “why else would I even be up here?”

“Not to look at his pretty face, that's for sure,” Lambert's voice sounded from the door. “What are you two love birds whispering about up here?”

“Fuck off, Lambert, now is not the time,” Geralt warned him off, knowing it probably wouldn't help. With Lambert it never did.

Lambert, as predicted, never heeded any warning and before Geralt could react, the younger witcher snatched the letter from his hand and scampered off.

Geralt was about to get up and go after Lambert, but Eskel's hand on his arm stopped him. “Let him. He'll need to know anyway. And he'll need time to adjust.” Eskel punctuated his sentence with a wince. “Might even need more than me if we begin to look into the Trials again – even if it's just to try and fix a botched one.”

Geralt sat back down again, puzzled at his brother's seeming lack of a temper. Maybe some things had changed over the past decade. “You mean his reaction to what Yenn did to Uma?”

Eskel snorted softly. “Yeah. Didn't exactly handle that with grace.”

“Mm hm, that's being generous, I'd say. If I recall correctly, you were curious back then and said we needed to talk about it. We never did. Did you mean talk about our options for making new witchers?”

“Yeah. I did. There are too few of us. We can't keep up anymore.”

Eskel's point was not new to him. Geralt had entertained similar thoughts, but he was far from convinced more witchers would solve the problems of the world of today. He said as much.

“I know. I know,” Eskel deflected. “We belong to the past and all that. Heard it all before. It's why we needed to talk about it. Just never got around to it. Seemed pointless after...”

“Mm hm, I know” Geralt assured him. “Without Vesemir it all became...”

“Exactly,” Eskel agreed. Geralt was ever grateful for how well Eskel knew him. No mind-reading was necessary and never had been between the two of them.

The sound of Lambert's footsteps now echoed from the stair tower. “Not worried that he's gonna do something stupid?” Geralt prodded.

Eskel chuckled a little.“Nah. I know he will. Don't worry about me. If she's alive I'm gonna need help anyway. Whatever he plans to do, he's probably saving me a lot of trouble.”

Geralt was not entirely convinced of that, but it was Eskel's call to make. “Alright, wanna go see what he's up to, then?”

“We probably should. He's gonna try to embarrass me, after all. Would be rude to not be around and rob him of that pleasure.”

Though he had tried to sound like he was on top of things, Geralt saw through the veneer and recognised the usual resignation in Eskel's demeanor. He decided to pummel Lambert if he went too far. There were some things you should keep your nose out of. They rose and went in the same direction Lambert had gone – downstairs.

They did not quite catch up. Mostly because Eskel held him back when they entered the kitchen, and motioned for him to be quiet. Geralt had no idea what Eskel had in mind, perhaps he was a bit more on top of things than he had first thought? As they entered the hall from the kitchen, Lambert was shuffling his way to the first of the pages.

“So, who else wants to know, who writes letters to old Scarface?”

Geralt heard Yenn unsuccesfully suppress a groan before saying: “Really, Lambert?”

Keira sniffed with quiet laughter. As he turned the corner he could see both Triss and Ciri looking uncomfortable. Since no one else seemed to want to step in, he would.

“Knock it off, Lambert, no one's interested.”

“Oh, but you're wrong. I'm interested. That letter has been waiting up there for almost a year and I **need** to know what's in it. If Old Grouch has found himself a sweetheart, I want to know about it.”

“Lambert...” Geralt let the threat hang.

With a flourish Lambert fell into one hip and took on a light, breathy voice to go with the feminine stance. It seemed he was a fair bit more drunk than they had previously realised. And then he read aloud.

“ _Hello wolf._ Oh my, Geralt. Was the letter really for you? Is that why you don't want me to read it? Have you begun using his name, when you fool around?”

At this, Yenn shot sharp glances at the both of them. First at Lambert who proceeded to ignore her, and then at Geralt, who shook his head slightly, for once hoping she would just pick the truth out of his thoughts. He did not need an additional conflict on top of this. To Lambert he said: “You're talking out your ass.”

“Am I really? Well, let us find out the truth, then.” He continued. “ _I hope this letter finds you in better health than last we met._ No, no this is all wrong.”

Eskel arrived and quietly stood next to Geralt. Everybody at the table looked embarrassed at this point. When Lambert saw him, he directed his next comment directly to Eskel.

“Really, Eskel, what did you do to her? Such formal language is not a sign of anything good. Let me know if you need pointers.”

Eskel snorted, and Lambert returned to the reading.

“ _And better than what I am likely to boast, when you receive it._ Wait, what? Is this a goodbye letter?” Lambert looked at the two of them.

Geralt just folded his arms over his chest. “Maybe if you had asked, you would've been told. Now quit-”

“No,” Eskel interrupted him, “let him. Now that he's started, he may as well finish. Right?”

Geralt immediately caught on and joined in. “Right. Go on, Lambert. You were doing such a great imitation of who was it again? Your latest fling?” Now it was Keira's looks that turned sour.

“Alright, who's it from?” Lambert asked.

“Read and find out,” Eskel responded mockingly, “wasn't that what you intended? And to think you were so interested ten years ago.”

“Wait it's from her? The one you told me about? The cat?”

Eskel nodded, and Geralt could see the puzzle pieces clickling into place in Lambert's head.

“I thought you said she'd be dead by now.” Lambert sounded less confrontational now – much to Geralt's relief.

“I thought she would be,” Eskel confirmed, “but it seems she had a surprise in store for us.”

“So, you don't mind?” Lambert's narrowed eyes were fixed on Eskel.

Eskel's laugh was forced. “Because it's only fun if I mind? Don't worry, Lambert, I do mind. But since I was going to tell you all anyway, you have just earned the privilege of doing it for me. Feel free to continue at your leisure.” With those words he went and sat down next to Ciri, whom Geralt saw send him a sympathetic smile. Clearly Eskel had not noticed the flashes of regret Geralt had seen in Lambert's eyes. Oh well, the git had been asking for it. He followed along and sat down as well.

It was Yenn who spoke up next. “Well, what will it be, Lambert? Are you going to make good on what you advertised to us?”

“For fuck's sake, you're no fun! Fine!”

Geralt was relieved that Lambert at least left out the silly voice, when he continued the recital of the letter, even if he did not quite stop making small snarky comments to some of the sentences as he read them aloud. He was not many lines in, before Geralt could see the dawning realisation on his face, and after a couple of paragraphs even the snark died out.

 

“ _Hello wolf_

_I hope this letter finds you in better health than last we met. And better than what I am likely to boast, when you receive it._

_I do not have much time left. My lucidity is waning, and this time I fear I shall not regain it. Unexpectedly I find myself with a strange need to tell my story before it becomes impossible. Perhaps it is just the vain need for a last confession, a defence maybe, vindication even. Or maybe it's an irrational survival instinct that grants me a naïve hope that maybe you can help. I doubt it, though. My end seems inevitable, and if there is help to be gotten, I suspect it will be of the merciful kind that'll simply grant me a final rest. I find some small consolation in the idea that if peace is ever to be granted me, it might be by your hand. I would want it to be. It seems somehow right – in the grander scheme of things, too. A wolf putting an end to the last of the cats._

_I suspect, I've only managed to confuse you with this introduction, so let me start with the obvious basics._

_As you saw, I'm a witcher, though it shouldn't be possible. I suppose my current predicament re-affirms that indeed it isn't – I've just managed to drag out my slow death over far more decades than has been entirely reasonable. Guess it comes with the territory. I'm not known for reasonableness, nor are my brothers._

_It will come as a surprise to no one that if anybody never gave up on making female witchers it would be the School of the Cat. Our style lends itself rather well to smaller, limber fighters than does the use of heavy armour. And women can get into places (and graces) that men find harder to access. If the aim is solely to fight monsters this would be irrelevant, but as the school's slide towards base assassinations had long since begun, the research into mutagens for females was never discontinued as it should have been._

_Of all the witcher schools, I suppose the cats started out with better chances in that department anyway. Our mutagens were already designed to work with elves, half-elves, quadroons as well as humans. Since we took in all kinds, there were a lot more constant adjustments to the procedures going on. There's an obvious reason we had more failed Trials than the other schools. Such a waste. At some point someone must have figured out what needed to be changed to get it to work on females. For some definition of working, anyway, with only one success. More lives to waste. That seems to have been a purpose all of its own in some cases._

_A long string of test subjects were taken in. It was easy enough to get them. The slave-trade is a lucrative business; especially down south, and suppliers were always happy to help, I'm given to understand. It's hardly surprising that several of my brothers settled in the slaving business once they decided witcher's work wasn't lucrative enough anymore. I heard two of your colleagues did away with Jad Karadin up in Novigrad, who'd done exactly that. I remember that smooth-talking son-of-a-bitch. Please give them my thanks. Nice work. Saved me the trouble._

_By the time I joined the school these experiements were long underway. I was technically too old to even begin undergoing the treatments, but for some reason they found something about me that made them want to try it anyway. Don't know what it was. They never told me much. Unfortunately I was in no position to see through all their accursed bullshit and get out before it was too late. By all accounts I shouldn't have survived, but I suppose outliers exist everywhere. Lucky me, I guess. It would have been better had I died with the rest of the female prospects._

_Apparently for a female I took well to the mutations – for some definition of “well”. They seemed to work, though it took a lot longer for the changes to settle. In fact, it took a few months before I was even physically functional again. And even then with senses, strength, speed and stamina in place there was still something unfinished – as if my body simply didn't want to settle with the newness. This I could have worked through. Maybe._

_My mind, however, was also affected, and not at all like it was supposed to be. I don't know for sure, but I think it has to do with the hormonal changes originally designed for males. When in battle I get the same adrenaline boosts that we're all supposed to, but it's as if the excess energy isn't released properly through the fighting. Nor by any other means – I've tried the lot. After a while of build-up my mind shuts down. Well, I'm not sure what my mind actually does, because I've never been around to experience it. I never have any memory of those bouts of madness._

_At first it was a few days every month or so – seemingly in time with what could normally have been my monthly cycle; The one I no longer had anymore anyway. I started training my mind to hold it at bay for longer. I thought I got results, but looking back over the years it may simply have been the way it would have developed no matter what I had done. Whatever the cause, it became a week every 2-3 months. Then a fortnight every 6 months. It remained at that level for some years. Every time I would feel it coming I would return to the keep and go into hiding. I would hunker down in a cell, where I felt confident I wouldn't hurt anyone in my madness. You see, wolf, those first several years, when the insanity struck, people would get hurt. Badly. Some even fatally. And I would never have any memory of it afterwards. I would just wake up to see the results of a mad rampage._

_After a while I began to realise that every time I came out of those bouts, I came out changed. At first I didn't notice for the exhaustion of it all, but then I started making mental maps of my scars and other little signs of unremembered activities. And after every bout there'd be a few more of them. It didn't take me long to figure out that my superiors had decided to experiment further on me, while I would conveniently be unable to remember anything about it. To this day I still don't know what they might have done to me. I've found nothing among their belongings that could tell me. But perhaps it is better – and more merciful – that I do not remember. I stopped returning to the keep after I tried to discuss this with one of our leaders. That's what led to my “interesting” burns. It wasn't necessarily a good idea, staying away. I am unhealthy company – to put it mildly – during those bouts. My fear of what my superiors did to me without my knowledge and my subsequent flight cost far too many lives – and probably more than I'm even aware of, I'm ashamed to admit. Nothing I can say or do will bring those people back._

_Then I found a way to handle it. I worked to keep the madness at bay, and the periods prolonged even further and overcame me only once every 3 or 4 years, but lasting 2-5 months when they did. That led me to devise a new method to handle it. I left my important belongings in a secure location, and then I took only things I could stand to lose. I ventured into dungeons, crypts, ruins, you name it. I did it with stealth, and avoided all combat. Then, when I had gotten as deep inside as possible, I waited for oblivion. Any fight-or-flight instincts that might take over at that point would only have me killing necrophages, kikimores and other things the world wouldn't miss – and the occasional grave-robbers or bandits looking for hide-outs. Mostly I would emerge from the madness in a cleared-out crypt, and though it was evident that I had killed the last inhabitants some time ago, I would still not have strayed outside – much anyway. Back in my right mind (if such still exists – sometimes I have my doubts) I could then go get my belongings and continue where I'd left off. Usually my first stop would be to find a settlement and figure out what date it was._

_It was after such a bout that you found me back then. Or your horse found me, I suppose. You have no idea how lucky you were. Had you gone wyvern-hunting a ten-day earlier, I would still have been inside the ruins and no help would have been around for you. Had you arrived 5 days earlier, I'd still have been so weak from the ordeal that I wouldn't have been able to help you however much I'd wanted to. You had impeccable timing, and I'm the happier for it. Your company was most welcome, though I'm not sure I ever really let you know how much I appreciated having you around. Even if it was just for a little while._

_The past decade and a half has seen a worsening of my problems. Instead of a respite of 3-4 years it very suddenly shortened to only about a year, though the madness didn't shorten proportionally. Would that I had been so lucky, but instead the bouts are steadily and consistently lengthening as well. By now I find myself not just enquiring about the time of year, but about the year itself. My last foray into oblivion lasted almost an entire year._

_My school hasn't exactly done much to endear itself to its colleagues – rather it has brought shame on all of us. To atone for the things I've done, I decided to put an end to it, before the experiments they'd done put an end to me. And thus for the past many years I've spent my mad months in my usual haunts – the good thing about necrophages is that after a few years I can go back to crypts I've cleared out before and do it all over again. Means I won't run out of places to go. And during that same time I've spent my lucid months cleaning house._

_I know there are bounties on most – if not all – of our heads. Though I have hunted down my former brothers, I have claimed none of those bounties. I know our old keep has been taken by soldiers. Your friend, Geralt, seems to have had a run-in with one of my brothers names Gaetan. I have found no traces of him, and since I'm still hearing stories of the White Wolf, I presume Gaetan lies dead somewhere. If I'm correct, I am the last of the cats now. At least I think I've rounded up all of them. I've tried to make sure that all remains of our mutagens and knowledge of them have been destroyed. If I'm not terribly misinformed I ought to be the last remaining person – maybe with the exception of a mage or two – with any knowledge of our remedies and methods for the Trial of the Grasses. I fully intend to take that knowledge to my grave. It should never be put to use again. Nothing much to worry about there – if my guess is correct, I probably won't count as a person for much longer._

_I can feel the build-up these days. I know it's close, and I don't think I'll come out of this one. After sending this missive I will return to where we met all those years ago. It has become a place of fond memories to me. I don't have many of those, so I treasure the few I do have. I have camped there for a few weeks now, making a few brief forays into the ruins. It's the third time I explore them. Their origin is still unclear to me, but the decorations on the walls seem like a combination of elven and dwarven. I found a section that is meant for a little controlled cave-in. The installations are already there – clearly a defensive measure of customary dwarven ingenuity. I think I can make it work again – I will give it a try at least. I hope the elves and dwarves will forgive me for ruining their lovely site in order to make it my tomb. I intend to die here – one way or the other – amongst fond memories. It is only my cowardice that keeps me from ending it directly. And perhaps hope. Hope that I'll find a way. Or that you will. But mostly it's just because I'm a coward._

_I have heard several stories about your brethren of Kaer Morhen by now. I hope you and the others will continue to be the good people you are. And I hope my little clean-up job has been thorough enough to make it a little less bothersome for you to maintain your reputation as such._

_Look after yourself._

_Your friend still (I hope)_

_Cat_ .”

 

The room was completely silent, when Lambert finished reading and lowered the papers. Even Yenn, who was hard to surprise, seemed at a loss. With her hand covering her mouth, Ciri looked outright horrified as did Triss, though the latter schooled her features better. Keira tried to feign disinterest, but Geralt knew her well enough to tell she, too, was curious.

Eventually it fell to Eskel to break the silence. “I'm leaving in a couple of days,” he announced and then looked to Geralt.

“We didn't have time to discuss much,” Geralt said while glaring at Lambert, “but if I can help you help her, I will.” He hoped he might also get Yenn to add her considerable knowledge and skills, but that was a far less certain thing.

“Thanks, wolf. Don't waste your time, though. We don't even know if she's alive. Or whether she can be saved if she is,” Eskel stated.

“But preparing for the eventuality is hardly a waste of time, Eskel,” Yenn butted in. “What do you expect to find there?”

Eskel shrugged. “Can't say. You heard what the letter said, so you know as much as I do about this part of her story.”

“Hmmm,” Yenn mused with undisguised interest, “and if she is alive, what kind of help would be appropriate, you think?”

“Honestly? I have no idea,” Eskel admitted. “I know where to look for her, and from what she wrote, I'll probably not get a friendly welcome.”

Lambert snorted at that comment. “Do we ever?” Geralt glared at him again, but this time his heart was not truly in it. He was much too busy cheering internally that Yenn's interest had been piqued without his intervention – and also busy with trying to think of what he might actually do to help; primarily keep Yenn interested. Probably.

Keira cleared her throat. “She wrote that the problem is linked to her Trial. If it were me, I'd find out, why it failed.”

All three witchers looked at each other in turn and Geralt shared a glance with Yenn. She kept her expression carefully neutral, but at least she was partaking, maybe she could be convinced to help. She might well be their best bet in terms of magical expertise. Before he could suggest anything to her Lambert was speaking again.

“Not much to be found out, if you ask me. It failed, because she's a woman. Those mutagens were made for boys.” Geralt hadn't thought Lambert's angry frown could deepen any more, but seemingly this day was full of surprises as it did just that while he spoke. “Using them on a woman was bound to end badly. You heard it, she's the only female recruit to even survive it. No mystery there.”

“But they must have had reason to believe that it might work, otherwise they would hardly have tried it, so their mutagens will have been different from yours.” Yenn was definitely taking an interest. Maybe she would not even need convincing.

“But we are gonna help her, right? I think we should.” Ciri interjected from her end. “Whatever she's done, this seems like a horrid way to go.” Geralt had expected no less from her. She knew a thing or two about people wanting to experiment on a person, after all. Anyone who knew Ciri would be able to predict that her sympathy would always be with the lab rat.

“I agree,” Triss chimed in, “I admit I know next to nothing about witcher Trials, so I probably won't be of much help with that, but if there's anything I can do, let me know. I can get here in no time.” She spoke directly to Eskel, who acknowledged her offer with a grateful nod.

“Thanks, all of you. Truth is, I don't even know where to start,” Eskel admitted, “aside from finding her. I guess, I'm sorta hoping something will turn up along the way.”

“Nah, that might not be necessary. I think I know where I would start,” Geralt told him. “Our library can't tell us much about the Trials used by the Cats, but there is one other left. I don't fault your friend for the assumption, but I didn't actually kill Gaetan, when I met him.”

“You didn't? But didn't you say he killed an entire village?” It was Ciri, questioning his judgment, as usual. He could never tell whether she got that from him or from Yenn.

“Mm hm, he did. After they attacked him. Tried to kill him. Wounded him badly with a pitchfork. He was lucky to even be alive.” Their eyes met, and he could tell she remembered all too well, how he had looked after a pitchfork had brought him down during the riot in Rivia. He tore his eyes from hers in order to continue talking. “He seemed genuinely remorseful. So I let him go.”

Yennefer tapped her finger on the table. “If you can find him, we have a source of knowledge of the Cats. Even if he doesn't know about their mutagens, he might still know about people, who might know more. And if she knew him, he probably also knew her. He might tell us about her as well.”

“So...” Eskel tentatively began, “does this mean you'll help?”

“Of course,” Yenn replied with a great deal more warmth than people usually received from her. “You were here, risking your life, when my reckless daughter there needed your help.” She made a grossly exaggerated gesture of exasperation in the general direction of Ciri, who just smirked and rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, but Ciri's one of us,” Eskel protested with puzzlement evident in his voice. “This Cat is... you're not exactly...” Geralt had to suppress his laughter, as his brother became too flustered to continue upon discovering he had more allies than he had expected.

“Eskel, this woman means something to you. That's good enough for me at the moment.” Yennefer's slightly admonishing tone would have had all of the witchers present balking in protest were the situation any different. “Besides,” Yenn continued, “I was getting bored with novels and frippery anyway, and this locale is definitely less taxing on my wardrobe.”

Geralt blamed the remaining alcohol in his system, but he simply could not contain his laughter anymore. Ciri joined him. They both knew the troubles Yenn had with black clothes and the hot Toussaint sun.

When their laughter died down, Triss asked: “So, what's the plan? And who does what?”

“I'll go find her,” Eskel said and then glumly added: “Or her remains.”

“And I'll head South and see if I can find Gaetan. He might be as far away as Nilfgaard, so I might be gone for quite some time,” Geralt supplied.

“I can take you there easily, that'll save some time,” Triss offered quickly.

Geralt winced at the thought, even if he did appreciate the gesture. “Thanks, but you know I hate portals. Besides, I need Roach with me. I've probably got a lot of tracking ahead of me.”

“I can transport both you and Roach,” Ciri pointed out matter-of-factly. “Where would you like to go? There are a couple of places in those parts I remember in uncomfortably great detail. I think I can hit them with reasonable accuracy.”

It was not a bad suggestion, he had to admit, and Ciri's powers didn't leave him feeling quite as ill as normal mage portals did. He nodded to her. “Alright. What about you, Yenn?”

“Well, aside from re-reading Demetia Crest's notes again, I'll need to scour a few libraries. Shame I don't have ready access to the Imperial Library anymore, otherwise I would have asked to join you two on that trip. As it is, I shall have to make do with Northern sources. And I will need to find a trust-worthy alchemist with knowledge of these things. Keira, you wouldn't happen to be free, would you?”

“No. Absolutely not! I am not getting involved in yet another dangerous thing of yours. Besides, I don't know anything about witcher Trials. I specialise in contagious diseases of the body. Diseases of the mind is far outside my field of expertise. And mutagens – genetics in general – too.” Her demeanour changed slightly and sadness coloured her voice, when she continued: “For that you would have wanted Sheala.”

Yenn sighed. “Yes, she would have been a font of knowledge regarding this, I'm sure. Not sure I would have trusted her, but nonetheless. Do you know of any living alchemists, who might be of assistance?”

No one answered. Not until Geralt suddenly remembered something he had heard said many years ago. “I don't know... maybe if you find Regis.”

“Regis?” Yenn repeated. “The one who helped us in Stygga, and got in trouble with you in Toussaint? That Regis?”

“The same,” he confirmed with a nod and a half-smile. “He's an alchemist. I don't think he knows anything specific about our Trials and mutagens, but he said something back then. He asked me if there were vampire genes in our mutagens.”

Scoffs were heard around the table, and he continued: “I know, it sounds unlikely, but how many of us actually know what's in them? How they're made and from what? He's an alchemist and-”

“And a vampire,” Ciri interrupted.

“Yeah, so? He doesn't drink blood. Hasn't in a long time.”

“That's not true. He did, when he saved me from Vilgefortz' lab.”

Regis had neglected to mention that, and Geralt didn't quite know what to think of that piece of information. He decided it could wait. “He didn't during our time in Toussaint, and he can be trusted. And he has a perspective that none of us do. He might be of help.”

“Should I decide to seek him out,” Yenn said, “where might I find him?”

“Not sure. He said he would return to Dillingen to his business as barber-surgeon and alchemist, but he has had that business since before I met him, so he may have moved on by now. At some point people will have started to suspect something, when he's not getting any older. But it's a place to start.”

“Hmm, whichever the case, I never got to thank him for helping us back then, before Vilgefortz bested him rather spectacularly. Perhaps I'll pay him a visit regardless.”

“If you do,” Ciri asked, “would you let me know when you go? I might want to come as well.”

“Of course,” Yenn readily agreed. “All is settled then?”

Everybody who had something to do nodded.

It took a while for the conversation to start flowing again. It had been a rather odd topic to discuss, when they had all expected to just sit here and wallow in memories and alcohol. As the evening drew on he noticed how Yenn pulled Eskel aside, he strained his ears to try and hear what she was asking his brother, but he had no luck with his efforts. He knew both of them, however, and neither of them displayed any body language that were cause for concern. Yenn was clearly asking questions, and Eskel was frowning a lot, while explaining something. Geralt could guess what it was about and left them to it. While Eskel was not any happier than he had been, he had been visibly relieved to know he had their support and aid. And Geralt was happy to for once be the one to help him out, rather than always rely on the help going the other way.

# # # # #

Eskel was heading out early in the morning a couple of days later. Only Triss was up and about and they had merely nodded to each other and gone about their business in companionable silence. She probably understood his need for solitude, he figured. As he packed a few rations in the kitchen, she approached him.

“Here.” She handed him a small item. “It's nothing great, but I wanted to help, even if it's just in a small way.” Her hand lingered a bit on his, before she withdrew it, and she did not meet his eyes.

“What is it?” He looked curiously at the small clay disk with runes engraved in it. It seemed somewhat fragile.

“It's a beacon of sorts. In my work with sneaking mages out of Redania and into Kovir they've been very useful, even if we have to be very careful with them. It is passive and will appear non-magical. If you break it, it will give off a magical flare to me. I will know it, and I will portal to the location of the broken disk. Break the disk in the place, where you want the portal to open.”

Eskel immediately saw, why they had to be careful with them. Portalling blindly on the trust that it was the right person, who had broken the disk in the right place, was risky business. Misguided though she might have been, according to some of Geralt's stories of Triss' exploits, this was a lot braver than he would have given her credit for.

“If you need help – any kind of help – magical aid or just quick transportation, you summon me, alright?”

Eskel nodded, touched by the gesture. This seemed somehow different than the no less important research effort Yenn would be putting in. “What about limits? I'll be going underground. Probably deep underground. Will the, uhh, flare still reach you?”

She looked uncertain for a moment. “I haven't tested it in extreme circumstances, but as long as you don't break it near magical sources that are strong enough for you to sense them, it should be fine. I didn't invent them, you know, I just found a reference in an old book and put it to use. I don't know of anyone else using them nowadays.”

“Yeah, I can imagine the amount of enemies your colleagues tend to make would make these things too risky to have lying around.”

“Exactly,” she confirmed. “The good thing about that is that most people would never even know what they are, should they stumble across a lost disk.”

Eskel nodded and carefully stored the disk in a secure pouch. “Thank you, Triss. This may end up coming in very handy.”

She sent him an encouraging smile, when he went for the door with his pack ready for travel.

“Hey! Hold it!” It was Lambert. He should have known he couldn’t get away without the prat giving him a send-off of some kind; the annoying kind most likely.

Eskel testily turned towards the approaching witcher. “What now? Make it quick.”

“Quick? Don’t have to. I’m coming with you.” Lambert spoke matter-of-factly like it was not at all up for discussion.

“You what? Why would you do that? What about Keira?”

“She’s busy. And there’s no way I’m letting you go alone. You’ll just mess it up. ‘Sides, you’ve got Geralt and Yenn doing the boring shit, and I am **not** helping them. No way.”

“I… what?” Eskel was dumbfounded.

“Come on, you oaf. Get a move on. Thought you were in a hurry.”

Eskel glanced inside. Triss pretended to ignore them, standing as they were in the open door, but her movements had stilled. She was no doubt listening. He pulled Lambert outside and shut the door behind them. He glared at the younger witcher before shoving him up against the stone wall of the keep. “Why are you doing this? Want to mock me some more, is that it?”

Lambert met his gaze defiantly. “I told you. You’re not doing this alone. There’s no knowing what you’ll find there.”

“And what’s it to you?” Eskel continued the impromptu interrogation.

Lambert shoved him back and Eskel let go. His hold had not been that strong anyway. “You can just tell me if you don’t want me to come.”

Eskel looked at him, pondering what the hell he was plotting. If anything. “Why?”

“Because I don’t think you oughtta do this alone.”

“That’s all? That’s your reason?”

“Well, I’m curious, too. But mostly, yeah, that’s my reason.”

Against his better judgment, Eskel accepted it. In truth he would be glad for the company, even if he was not entirely convinced this was the right company for him at the moment. It was better than none at all.

 


	3. Chapter 2

The beechen trees of the Aedirnian forest closed their leafhang above, shutting out the sunlight. The forest floor below lay shrouded in a perpetual twilight tinged with the bright green of fresh leaves in spring. In some places, where the trees stood closest together, the still, humid air took on an almost liquid quality in the verdant gloom. The short drumrolls of a wood pecker echoed in bursts between the boughs from a direction impossible to discern. Closer, the whistling call of a chiffchaff warned of unfamiliar passers-by.

A garden warbler singing its jaunty song flew from a bush and soared through the warm air trilling happily.

* * *

Heading South, the road through Kaedwen and Upper Aedirn had proven a somewhat worse idea than usual. Spring had come late this year and much of Upper Aedirn had still been clogged with the melt. Finally through the mud and safely entered into Lower Aedirn, Vesemir breathed a sigh of relief as his passage would now be a lot less troublesome. His horse certainly deserved a spell of dry roads by now. Having had to take care of two contracts already in the soggy remains of the Northern winter, finally coming upon a contract in these drier lands was very welcome indeed.

The keeper of the wayhouse had information about the contract as well as a dry stable for his horse. The beast would be comfortable, while Vesemir had to go trekking through the dense forest. There was no point bringing the horse with him into that.

The information, though it was freely given, was still precious little to go on, and he had to set out having a decent idea of what he was hunting, but not really knowing where. He would manage, he always did. This would hardly be the first time the information available to him was spotty.

Disappearances were always an interesting story. Everyone and their brother had a theory about what might have happened. Several of those theories had to do with adultery. They always did. Not that Vesemir was prepared to rule out adultery having been going on at all, but usually if people eloped, they did so as a couple – not on their own. No, the theories sparking more sinister tales about the disappearances were the more reasonable among them. Unfortunately.

Though villagers were prone to suspect and tell tall tales about big and impressive monsters at the drop of a hat, Vesemir had only needed a few days of tracking to be certain. He retrieved his horse at the wayhouse and continued further South, having determined that to be the direction his quarry was travelling in.

He would also need to restock a few supplies on the way. What he needed could be harvested in the wilds round these parts. Thankfully so; this one was not an enemy he wanted to face unprepared.

* * *

The green shade of a particularly dense patch of forest hid a person, standing amidst the leaves of the underbrush face tilted up at the canopy above, eyes closed. Listening. Hearing. The sounds of something approaching did not escape sensitive ears.

The garden warbler alighted on an extended finger and trilled its joyful tune again. When it took off once more, the owner of its temporary perch was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

Vesemir was hot on the trail and he knew he was getting close. He was also getting worried as he had noticed a set of footprints. Boots. They were fresh and it meant there was someone out here likely to be the next disappearance victim if he didn't get there first. He left his horse behind once more in an attempt to keep the element of surprise on his side. Realistically he might already have lost it, but it never hurt to be careful. He carefully made his way through the underbrush along the animal tracks the booted person before him had also followed. At this point there was no need to look for clues of his prey, he would simply follow whoever it was that had made themselves a likely next victim. Getting to them in time seemed unlikely, but he would try. He increased his pace and accepted the resulting lack of stealth.

* * *

The forest darkened around her or maybe it was her vision beginning to fade. Why had she allowed herself to be caught off guard? As time seemed to slow down she mentally corrected herself: It was inevitable that she should be caught off guard. Given how tired she was, it was a miracle it hadn't happened sooner.

The garden warbler was still trilling nearby, undisturbed by events on the forest floor. And why should it not be? Her death would never affect it. As she dug her nails into the bark of a tree, held up only by the strength of her attacker and having long since given up on fighting, she thought she heard a sound of rustling leaves.

The pressure suddenly stopped, though the pain remained. She grabbed at where her life's blood was pouring out and did what she could to halt the flow. Her vision was swimming and as she toppled to the ground like a ragdoll, she briefly saw the man before darkness engulfed her senses.

* * *

The bruxa put up a mean fight, as Vesemir had expected. Vampires of that order were never to be trifled with. He had known, what he was heading into; obviously a solitary specimen this one would be powerful without any need to seek safety in numbers, and that assessment had proven more than correct. She was fast; so fast that it left Vesemir without any chances to check on the poor woman currently slumped on the ground against the roots of a tree. Judging from the amount of blood on her neck and the pallour of her skin, there would be nothing he could do for her aside from avenging her death.

That he would do, though not before the bruxa had managed to throw him back against the tree trunks a few times. She not only used her scream generously, she was clever and agile enough to aim him directly at a tree every single time. At least his Moon Dust bombs kept her from shrouding herself from his eyes, but it did not in any way diminish her fighting prowess. All the mock complaining he did about his old bones began to feel more true than Vesemir really appreciated.

She was faster than him, there was no denying that; vampires were faster than everyone. To his great annoyance she did not make any attempts to bite him, making his does of Black Blood a damned waste. Bringing her in close like that would have been his best chance, but it seemed she had drunk her fill from that woman and was not particularly hungry for an extra snack. He would have to tempt her further than just by fighting.

Vesemir feigned exhaustion, though if pressed he would have to admit that some of it was genuine. More of it than he liked. He parried, but kept his parries lower than before, he lunged, but did not follow through. For all the world to see, he was tiring and would soon be another snack. Thankfully, the bruxa's raging bloodlust kept her from figuring him out, and when he allowed her to land a glancing blow on his chin, she darted around his back expecting him to be dazed. He made sure to give every impression of just that, when he began to turn towards her, purposefully slower than would be enough to meet her head-on.

The prickling sensation of hairs standing on end tickled the back of his neck when she came close. Out of the corner of his eye he noted her hands were extended to grab him. He let her. His armour prevented her from tearing open anything important, but her bite still hurt like nobody's business. The bloodlust had overtaken her and she was now eagerly drawing blood from the wound in his shoulder. There was no possibility she would be prepared for his blow. The moment her felt her stiffen from the effects of his potion-altered blood, he tore himself free and whirled left, backhanding her with a heavy, studded bracer to the jaw. It dislocated with a crunch. He followed up with Aard, throwing her to the ground. As she scrabbled to regain her footing, considerably slowed by the poison in her system, Vesemir could nonetheless see her jaw in the proces of righting itself already. She stayed down only barely long enough for him to run her through with his silver blade. Coated as it was with Vampire Oil it made her scream – this time in pain. He leaned down on the pommel, not giving her any chance of pulling herself from the blade. A sustained Igni blasted at her, burned her as close to ashes around his blade as he was able.

She was a higher vampire and a poweful one at that. She would eventually regenerate, but after this it would probably take her a few decades at least.

* * *

Strong hands held her shoulders. A gruff voice rang painfully loud in her ears from a great distance, accompanied by the garden warbler's faint melody fading away in the background. She struggled to open her eyes but saw nothing. The gruff voice spoke calmly to her, but she understood no words, only the tone. Surprise and concern. Concern. Speak, she would have to speak, if she wanted help.

“Home. Help. Home,” she managed to croak. She had intended to say a lot more; explanations, directions, promises of a reward, but it was all she could manage.

A large gloved hand cupped her cheek. The tactile stimulus of the thumb below her eye helped her finally open them and look at the man. What little blood she had left in her rushed in her ears as she saw his eyes. Those eyes. Not again. His lips moved. He spoke to her, but she heard nothing for the furious waves crashing against her eardrums.

She strained to hear, but in vain. She could see his lips forming the words: “Hold on” and “Where”, but she had no strength left with which to speak any more words. She noted with a detached resignation that her breathing was too shallow to allow for speech. There was one last way, one which would sap the last of her strength. As her eyes slowly began to fall shut again, her glance fell to his medallion. He was not one of them. Maybe a last ditch effort would not be in vain.

She raised a hand towards him, but found she lacked the strength to reach his face. She wanted to shout in frustration, but no sound came.

* * *

He could give her this comfort at least. The woman was dying, that much was clear, and when she reached for him, he caught her hand and guided it where she seemed to want it to go. After the fight there was blood all over him anyway; an additional, bloody handprint on his cheek would hardly make a difference.

How wrong he was. When her cool fingers settled on his skin, he realised what she was, as images assaulted his mind.

She was showing him the way to her home, through the forest, and through a series of wards. Accompanying the vision in his mind was a soft, clear alto voice telling him to name his price.

A sorceress then. Not what Vesemir had expected to find alone in the forest. But who was he to question the doings of magicians? No one ever could guess what they were about. And this one had not seemed to defend herself very well either. Very unusual.

It seemed she had used her last strength to place those images in his head. Now she lay unconscious in his arms, trusting in him to keep her safe and having agreed to the only price he could think to ask in his surprise at finding her still alive and communicating inside his own head. She had agreed, the deal was sealed, there was no point in overthinking it. Fate would handle the rest.

He stood up after making sure she was not still bleeding. At least she had been wearing practical clothing, and he would not have to worry about her getting cold; another unusual thing for an enchantress. Her dress was modest and without any hints of finery. Her own cloak would serve just fine for a cover bloodied though it was, and he wrapped her in it before picking her up.

A brief internal debate regarding the wisdom of making a detour to get his horse came out in favour of the horse. It would be a long walk to the sorceress' home, whether or not he made the detour. Night would be falling soon, and with the impression she had given him of the route to her home, it would take him at least half a day to get them there. There would be no sleep for him this night, it seemed. With a little luck they could reach her home around dawn, and then Vesemir would simply have to hope she had remedies waiting that would ensure her survival. At this point her chances were still poor. Even a witcher would be hard-pressed to survive blood-loss of this scale, and though sorceresses were known to be a stubborn bunch, they did not have the improved constitution of a mutant.

Darkness crept up on them a few hours later, while Vesemir cautiously made his way along the animal paths she had shown him. It was a challenge. The images she had shared had been memories of the places during the light of day. The grey-scale of nighttime made everything look different, and carrying the woman in his arms was an unwelcome strain on his already tired body. He desperately needed to sleep off that dose of Black Blood, but instead it would wreak havoc on his body and perceptions for another day or so. Several times he had to double back to find the right path, and not until an hour or so before dawn, when the world shifted into the dry, brown sepia-hues, did he come upon paths that had recognisably seen human use, even if it was very little. Most magicians he had ever been in touch with preferred some degree of reclusiveness at least some of the time, but this was unusual even for one of them.

He got to the first of the wards and felt his medallion shake slightly. Momentary confusion robbed him of his sense of direction and unconsciously he almost turned around – away from where he was going – before he realised what was happening. A misdirection ward; clever. Entirely non-fatal and unnoticable to anyone who could not sense the magic at work. They would just be diverted and be led away from the location. The next ward they came across he only noticed because of his medallion, but he could not for the life of him discern what it did, he sensed nothing where he stood. He did not notice any others until he could see a little cottage in a clearing ahead. When he neared the clearing his medallion once again drew his attention to their passing through yet another warded perimeter. The purpose of this one was hidden from him as well.

The small pen next to the cottage was ill-maintained. The sorceress in his arms did not keep animals, it seemed. Despite its state of disrepair it would have to do. There was plenty of grass and he resolved to put his horse in there, once he had gotten the woman safely into a bed. For now he tied the reigns sloppily to the weather-worn fence and hoped nothing would spook the horse, the fence did not look like it could stand up to a strong pull.

Standing by the door of the cottage Vesemir recalled the woman's visual instructions silently thanking the excellent memory witchers enjoyed. He gently took her hand and guided it along the invisible lines of the glyph she had shown him. His medallion reacted strongly, when he finished the last stroke of the glyph, and there was a sensation like a pressurized pop that tickled his inner ear in a place he could never hope to scratch. The woman in his arms stirred, groaned, and opened her eyes.

“No. No. That simply won't do,” she muttered and slumped in his arms again as she sank back into unconsciousness. He looked in the same direction she had. A fox was sitting there, looking warily at the two of them. At its feet five little pups were bouncing about. Vesemir chuckled to himself and shook his head. Fate sometimes had a sense of humour.

With the warding of the door taken down by her own hand, Vesemir stepped inside. He could not really say what he had been expecting, but a humble cottage with not a hint of magic about its interior was not it. There was a bench in the front room, where he laid her down, so she could at least rest, while he looked around. The room served as a combined entrance room and working area with a rack for cloaks as well as tables that had seen frequent use. Firewood lay prepared by the small stove in the inner corner and he quickly got a fire going. Spring or not, the nights were still cold, and this cottage had not been heated for a while. The cold walls spoke their own clear language.

The house was divided into four rooms – the four chimney pipes had told him as much before they headed inside. From the front room he could see through the open door into what was clearly the kitchen in the back. He could guess how the kitchen stove would be in the inner corner of that room. A quick look around the kitchen showed signs of only basic alchemy. Perhaps village witch was a better description of the woman than enchantress. Nonetheless there was a plentiful supply of flowers, herbs and roots, and if nothing else turned up, he could at least make soothing compresses and an invigorating elixir for her. If nothing else turned up, he would simply have to hope it would be enough. The door between the kitchen and the other back room was closed, and rather than taking his chances not knowing whether her inner doors were warded, he went back to the front room to continue from there.

The other room at the front of the cottage was a combined dining and drawing room. Not that the dining table seemed to be used for its intended purpose. Parchments and books lay strewn all over it, and only one end of it had any free space on the wooden surface. The inner corner of this room had an open fireplace by which a single wingback chair and a footrest stood. A very comfortable looking set-up all in all.

The door to the back room was closed. Vesemir sighed as his medallion shook slightly, when he reached for it. There was nothing to do about it, he had to get her into a warm bed. And his alchemical skills would hardly be enough to whip up what she needed – even with the supplies from the kitchen. He cautiously touched the wood of the door hoping he might be able to sense what kind of ward it was his medallion had warned him about. It did not seem to be terribly strong, maybe it was just an alarm of some kind. Running a hand slowly over the door, he did not sense any places with a stronger aura than others. It was perfectly even. That ruled out a glyph that could be traced. When his hand neared the door handle the entire surface aura became stronger as if activating something. He immediately let go and stepped back, but nothing happened.

Already he knew more. It reacted to attempts at opening the door, but he would probably need to make such an attempt to find out what it would do. The magic was too subtle for him to discern its effects just from this. Once again Vesemir re-assessed the sorceress. Her kitchen stock could not possibly be her entire storage, not with wards like these. They were subtle and complicated magic far beyond the every day village witch.

If he wanted that door opened, he needed to go ahead and do it. He used Quen in the hopes that it might protect him from any resulting damage, hoping any defensive ward would be designed for indoor use and not burn the house down. Then he grabbed the handle.

The door did not open, but the refined tones of a lady spoke to him. “State your business.” It was not the voice he had heard in his mind, when the injured sorceress had 'spoken' to him.

“Helping out the mistress of the house,” he answered. He had no idea how refined the intelligence of the disembodied voice would be. Best tread carefully. Golems, if that was what it was, did not always answer to common reasoning.

“The mistress is not in. The way is shut,” came the prompt reply. The voice sounded slightly haughty – like a noble.

“I have brought the mistress home,” Vesemir tried.

“The mistress is not present. The way is shut,” the voice responded.

That at least he could work with. It seemed there would be nothing hostile about the ward as long as he acted sensibly. He went back to the front room and once again picked up the unconscious sorceress, carrying her to the warded door.

This time, when he approached, the magic flared before he touched anything. His medallion gave of a stronger vibration this time. Her presence had been noticed. His hands full he hoped he could communicate with the voice without having to touch the door.

“The mistress is present now,” he announced to the door.

“Indeed,” the voice said with considerably more life to it than before, “the way is clear. Please proceed.” A click sounded from the door. Vesemir opened it with an elbow and maneuvred them through. The room he stepped into seemed larger than it should be, but that would be a concern for later. Apparently this room functioned as both her bedroom and storage for things that did not belong in a kitchen. He carefully unwrapped her from her bloody cloak before laying her down in the bed and pulling the covers up around her. She was disconcertingly cold and clammy, but at least she was still breathing, even if her breaths were quick and shallow. Her pulse was similarly weak and hasty, her heart straining to do what it could with what little blood was left in her.

Perusing the shelves of potion vials that had given him hope of finding what she needed, quickly dashed those hopes again. Not a single one of the elixirs was labeled. Either the woman was a genius or she was daft.

The voice once more rang out: “The mistress directs that I aid you.”

That made Vesemir pause. The enchantress was not as deeply unconscious as she seemed, then. Awake enough to do some things apparently – or at least to sense the house's guardian. “What aid may you lend?” He enquired of the room, feeling all the more foolish for it.

“I may answer questions.”

“Very good, then. It may be enough. Your mistress has lost a lot of blood. Is there a blood-replenishing remedy on these shelves suitable for her, and if so, which one is it?”

“The case to the right of the kitchen door. Third shelf from the top. The small vials with mahogany-coloured liquid. One is enough.” The voice was matter-of-fact and Vesemir settled on the woman probably being a genius. With no labelling and help only available to those approved by herself, no one would be able to make use of these unless they were accomplished alchemists themselves.

He brought the vial with him to the bed, where he sat down by her side. He carefully sat her up, leaning her against his shoulder. They could worry about cleaning off the blood and gore later. He uncorked the vial and took a careful sniff, he recognised a few of the scents that rose to meet his nose. Most prominent was of course iron, which was only to be expected, but also the faint scents of foxglove and kale mixed with others he could not readily identify. He could sense it also had magical properties and decided that her own disembodied guardian would probably not have led him astray. He gently poured the contents of the vial into her mouth and made sure she did not choke on it. She made a face and he smiled; witcher potions were not the only ones tasting terrible.

Not long after administering the potion he heard her heartbeat strengthen. She was still far too pale, but even magic was not miraculous, so he would have to be patient.

“For optimum effect the potion can be followed up with a pint of water,” the haughty lady's voice told him. Of course, and she would also need more than just a pint. Any victim of blood loss needed fluids.

He went back outside. Given how cold the house had been, he did not expect any fresh water indoors, but he had noticed a well in the yard, when they arrived, and he needed to get his horse settled in the small pasture as well. The latter was quickly done and he went into the garden. Though it seemed somewhat in need of weeding, it was nothing that could not be explained with a few weeks or maybe a month's absence. The herbs growing there corresponded to the dried supplies he had noticed in her kitchen; she must tend it at intervals.

The well, too, was in decent repair with a clean rope, a well-sealed bucket, and a cover to keep it relatively free of dirt. The first bucketful carried up a slight bit of floating detritus that had settled on the surface of the water and he distributed it in the garden. The next few bucketfuls he poured in the trough for his horse. And finally he went back inside with clean water, first to get some of it into the now fitfully sleeping enchantress and then to get the both of them cleaned up. He resolved he could stay a couple of days to make sure she was alright. He was not expected back to claim the bruxa contract at any set time anyway.

Being indoors in relative safety and having done what he could for the woman, Vesemir finally took the time to study her. She looked unusually old for a sorceress. Every single one he had ever seen or heard of had maintained youthful looks, but this one not only looked to be in her fourties as he had surmised at first glance, no, she looked to be in her fifties. It was simply that the greying hair at her temples did not lend much contrast to her blonde hair and was thus hardly noticable at a distance, but she was most certainly greying. A sorceress. Going grey. He doubted anyone would believe him if he told them about it. Only wizards ever let their age show.

The explanation he had received was that men gained authority with age, women with beauty. While that might indeed be so among the nobility, he thought it was nonsense. Show him the wounded man who would rather seek out the beautiful maiden to die in her lap, than the wise old woman who would be more likely to know how to patch him up and send him off to woo said maiden. No, in the real world outside the castle walls of noble families, living long enough for your age to show was an accomplishment in itself.

He wondered exactly how old this woman had to be for her age to show despite magical efforts to remain young. Or how peculiar she had to be to not make such efforts. He could not tell which was the case. As it was, wrinkles radiated from the corners of her eyes and mouth and made her look slightly worried even when relaxed in sleep. Her eyes, when she had briefly opened them, had been steel grey. Her aquiline nose added to her severe visage and he imagined if she frowned at someone it would be rather intimidating.

After having gotten some water into her, Vesemir was relieved to see her sleep becoming less fitful. Cleaning himself up he handled outside as the morning sun turned to the midday heat of spring. He left his armour to dry on the fence, knowing no one would stumble across the place, and after having cleaned and oiled his blades he finally felt his mind calm enough to be able to sleep. He did take his swords with him inside and placed them next to the chair by the fireplace, where he settled in for some much deserved rest.

* * *

She awoke to a pounding headache. Opening her eyes to take stock of her surroundings, she found them to be her very own bedroom. That did not seem right. She forced her memory into some semblance of activity and soon the images returned. She had met the woman in the forest. She had sensed something about her, but it had already been too late when she approached. The bruxa had bested her with little trouble at all. And then that man – the witcher – had saved her life. Barely, mind you, she had been in dire straits, but he had saved her.

She turned her head to look for him, but all she saw was a jug and a cup on her bedstand. And the small, empty vial from a replenishing potion as well as a few from her nutritional supplements. It came back to her how she had willed her servitor to aid him. It had been a huge risk to take, but he had not been one of them and obviously had not known her. Otherwise he would not have helped her at all. But she was lying in her own bed feeling unmistakably better than she had, even if her head was aching. She sat up with cautious movements, wary of losing her balance.

There was still water in the jug and she poured herself a cup. The headache would probably just be dehydration and could be fixed with water. She opened a drawer and took out a little hand-mirror. The bite wound on the right side of her neck still needed some attention. She had spent her last magic on just stopping the worst of the bleeding. She had not had the strength to do more. Looking at it now in the little mirror, she could tell the witcher had done what he could with a herbal compress to speed up the healing and keep infection at bay. He had done a fine job, too. Not unexpected, really, he was an old hand at it, if his grey hair and mustache was anything to go by. Not many witchers lived long enough to go grey unless they settled in their school to teach and no longer walk the Path.

She had to think of a way to repay him. He had decided for his reward to be determined by Fate, but that had hardly come out in his favour. No, she would give him something suitable. She just had to figure out what it should be.

The door to her living room was open. A limp hand hung over the armrest of her chair, and from where she sat, she could tell he had dressed down to his green shirt. A soft, rumbling snore carried to her from the chair and made her smile.

She got up, swayed a bit and sat down again. She had better put away another cup of water or two before making another attempt. It helped, and the second attempt was more successful. The man had not undressed her, and she had no idea how long she had slept. Usually the blood-replenishing potion would keep a person under for about two days for energy conservation purposes. The proces would be over faster, if the patient was not awake. There were risks, of course, there always were, but if injuries had been taken care of, and only the bloodloss remained it was by far quicker to just fix it in a potion-induced coma. Clearly her servitor had guided him to give her the nutrients she needed during the proces. The number of vials fit with a bedrest the length of about two, maybe three, days.

Straining her ears she listened for the birds. Only the ones that usually nested around her cottage were to be heard. What a relief. Their song indicated it was sometime in the early hours of the day. Not a bad time to start the day. She quietly shrugged out of her dress. There was blood on it, though not as much as she had expected. Her cloak had probably taken most of it. It was nowhere to be seen, however, so she quickly washed herself by her water basin, which her saviour had also thought to fill. A fresh dress followed. It felt good to be clean again. It lifted her mood immensely.

The exertion of getting dressed had left her slightly winded, and she had to lean on the doorjamb before fully entering the living room. Her eyes strayed immediately to her works on the table, but it seemed the old witcher had not moved a thing. Surveying the room, that appeared to be the case for everything. His boots were standing by the door to the front room, the broom in the corner was not where she had left it, so a mess had been cleaned up; probably one that had been made, when getting her home. Not even the chairs around her table had been moved. Only the pillows and blankets in her wingback chair had been re-arranged for his comfort, and he was certainly well within his rights to ensure his own sleep.

The two swords leaning against the arm of the chair caught her attention. She had an idea. She could not complete it right away, but she could find out, whether it was viable. She picked up one of the blades, the silver one, pulled it a handsbreadth out of the sheath and examined it. A fine blade, excellent craftsmanship, definitely not his first, no witcher started out with blades of that quality. This would have to be one he had worked hard to acquire.

The slight snores had stopped. “Usually mages don't take such an interest in our weapons.” The gruff voice she recognised from her panicked near-death experience sounded from the grey witcher in the chair.

“I apologise, Master Witcher. I was merely wondering how I might repay you.”

He got up and indicated she sit in the chair. “Nevermind that. I'm glad to see you're up, my dear.”

She shook her head slightly and remained standing. “Thank you. I think I've spent quite enough time being immobile the past few days. I may not last long on my feet, but I intend to be upright for as long as I can manage it.”

He laughed lightly and shook his head. “I might've known you'd be as stubborn as the rest. Very well, suit yourself. Name's Vesemir.”

“Well met, Vesemir.” She offered him her hand, which he shook. “I'm Lucinda. Thank you for bringing me to my home and caring for me.”

“You're quite welcome. Now that you're up, is there anything else you need? Otherwise I'll be on my way.”

She hid her disappointment; of course he was itching to get moving. He would be. Witchers never did trust magicians much, and she could hardly blame them. “I did actually mean it, when I spoke of a reward. I promised you the first thing I saw, when we got back here, as you requested, but the vixen and her pups are hardly mine to give.”

“And that's why I said to never mind it, my dear. Fate decided to not give me anything this time. I had a contract on the bruxa, so the loss isn't great.”

She held up a hand. “Please, I know how Fate can matter a great deal. But I also know what good equipment means to a witcher, and how expensive it is. I have a suggestion. Hear me out?”

“I don't want any gold from you, miss. Like I said, the contract will do fine, and Fate-”

She cut him off, not really having the energy to muster her usual patience. “I am not offering gold. I am offering equipment. Now, I freely admit that I am not the most powerful mage you'll ever meet. I'm sure you must have wondered, why I did not defend myself more efficiently against that vampire. Combat magic was never my thing. The only instant magic I'm truly any good at is healing. What I do best is stationary magic, so to speak. Wards, alchemy and enchantments. Hence I examined your blades to see if I might offer you something that can top what you already have.” She looked him pointedly in the eyes. It had been so long since she had last looked into a pair of those slitted pupils.

“I see,” he said hesitantly. “What do you propose?”

“I still need to recover some strength,” she admitted to him, “but if you stay for another few days, I will enchant both of your swords as your reward for saving my life and bringing me to safety.”

He looked skeptical and she could not for the life of her understand why. She was offering him magical equipment and he was looking for a way out.

“I don't know,” he once again tried to explain, “if Fate did not see fit to grant me a reward, it might be ill-advised to force it.”

Lucinda smiled. The man was kinder and more cautious than was entirely reasonable. “I do not intend to force anything legendary out of a recalcitrant Fate, I assure you. But please, I do not like feeling indebted to anyone, and certainly not in this magnitude.”

“Well, I can understand that,” he said, absent-mindedly rubbing at the cut on his chin. A few days old; from the bruxa, then, Lucinda concluded. “Very well, Miss Lucinda, I agree. Three more days and then I will be on my way.”

“Thank you. That's settled, then.” Leaning in and kissing him on his grizzled cheek was partially out of the need to hold on to something to keep her balance, and partially because she was so relieved he had agreed. She had enough debts in her life. She did not think she could bear another.

* * *

Three days later Vesemir was packed up and ready to go. Inaction was not good for him, and with no monsters to slay nor a road to travel, he had fixed the fence around her pen. She had tried to dissuade him, saying that she did not keep animals anyway, being away from the place for too long stretches of time for it to be sensible. He liked things to be in order, however, and had fixed it all regardless of her protestations.

To be perfectly honest he had enjoyed the restful spring days in her cottage. It was not often he had the opportunity to observe a person he did not already know well. Mind, for long stretches of time she left him alone and disappeared through a portal in her bedroom to a lab she said was beneath the cottage. That was where she took his swords to. When she came back out she always seemed faintly surprised by his presence. He had remarked on it one of those times, and she had laughed mildly at herself and admitted that she was used to being alone; especially at the cottage. She never invited anyone there, she had told him, preferring it to be a shelter of solitude.

They talked more after that conversation. It seemed to have opened up an understanding between them, and as they talked Vesemir became convinced she might be as old as himself.

Now, as he was about to leave with a pair of enchanted blades, a priceless gift to be sure, he almost regretted not having more time with the kindly witch. Lucinda had turned out to be uninterested in politics, unlike so many of her colleagues, and said she spent most of her time administering remedies or researching remedies while others brewed. She had all the excentricities of a sorceress, but her demeanour was indeed that of a village witch. It was no wonder her appearance and manner had so confused him at first.

As he was about to heave himself into the saddle she stopped him. “Please do not tell anyone about me or this place, Vesemir. I like my anonymity, and I am seldom here. Even if I am, I do not want company. Especially so when I am here, in fact.”

“Of course, my dear,” he promised without hesitation, “your secret's safe with me. Should I refrain from stopping by as well?”

“Oh, you old fox,” she laughed and lightly swatted at his shoulder, “if you must stop by, then by all means do so. I cannot promise I will be here.”

“I know, I know. Your work takes you out and about. Who knows? Perhaps we'll meet on the Path?”

“We may just,” she agreed. Her smile was warm and Vesemir could not resist pulling her in for a good old-fashioned hug. It had truly been good to not feel so alone with the weight of the centuries, even if it was for just a few days. When they pulled away from each other again, he silently mused on how she had managed to age with such grace. He mostly just felt tired, whereas she seemed to be sustained by an aura of soft kindness.

He took her hand, bowed and kissed it. “Till next time, then, whenever it may be. Fair Lady of the Unnameable Name.”

She laughed and then abruptly stopped herself. “Oh! That reminds me.” Her grey eyes were earnest and looking straight into his, while her hand still rested in his own. “You were concerned about the names. Not to worry; they are not names ingrained in the magic, just symbolic nicknames of a sort. You said Fate had not seen fit to reward you this time, but maybe it did and we have simply not understood yet what you were given. **My** reward to you is the enchantment. The names merely placeholders, reminders of what Fate showed us. Who knows what will eventually come of it? It may one day make sense.”

“It might. It might,” he conceded without bothering to hide his doubts.

She leaned in and kissed his cheek again. The gesture still tickled pleasantly on his skin as he rode out of the little clearing and away from Lucinda's cozy cottage.

 


	4. Interlude

_Any mutation in the genetic code itself (as opposed to mutations in the genes that it encodes) would have an instantly catastrophic effect, not just in one place, but throughout the whole organism. (…) Unlike an ordinary mutation, which might, say, slightly lengthen a leg, shorten a wing or darken an eye, a change in the genetic code would change everything at once, all over the body, and this would spell disaster._

_Richard Dawkins, The Greatest Show on Earth_

  
  


_Not much is known about the ability of higher vampires to transform into other shapes; only that they have it. None have been successful at convincing one to divulge its secrets. Scholars suspect that their transformative abilities are connected to their regenerative abilities, thus differing from the ability of for instance dopplers, but no such connection has been proven for lack of test subjects. Why the lesser vampires have only the regenerative but not the transformative abilities is a matter of speculation. The most prevalent theory among the foremost scholars on the subject holds that transformation requires some amount of intelligence to direct it and is therefore not available to creatures without sufficient mental faculties to control it._

_Giambattista Vecchi, Immortals Among Us  
Recovered from the personal library of Philippa Eilhart upon her death._

  
  


_In nature, large mutations seldom survive, but geneticists like tham in the laboratory because they are easy to study._

_Richard Dawkins, The Greatest Show on Earth_

  
  


  
  


Pain. Unbearable pain.

Drunk on the blood of the wizard's minions he had thrown caution to the wind. The wizard's blood was too tempting a treat for him to pass by, and it had been his downfall.

He knew it the instant the wizard's hands had burned him. His clothes had simply evaporated in patches under the searing heat of those hands.

Regis would have torn himself loose. He could have done it, too, had the sheer heat not completely numbed his reflexes.

Pain flooded every corner of his awareness. It burned his thoughts from his mind.

Confusion at a strange feeling of liquid on his skin; Vampires could not sweat. It was not sweat. His skin was melting.

He was only vaguely aware that his back hit something solid, and that the solid mass became liquified at the contact.

His entire body – his very being – was burning.

Then suddenly the wizard let go. The heat immediately lessened, giving way to a sluggish, creeping cold.

The searing, destructive pain changed, but into what he could not tell.

He felt the panic slow. Not dissipate and be replaced with calm. Just slow. He felt his thoughts slow. His body likewise.

And he was stuck. He attempted to shapechange. Impossible. Slowly, with slow dread as everything in him lost momentum, he realised that his body had become one with the stone. The molecules of his body intertwined with those of the stone. Slowed to a halt.

His thoughts slowed. Perceptions long gone. Everything stood still.

His body; still as a rock. His mind; quiet as a mouse.

All that was left; immobility.

Immutable dread.

Terror.

 


	5. Chapter 3

She had felt the tug of the beacon amulet in the early hours one day. It had been so long that she had almost given up on hearing from them ever again. But now it was there. She had done a quick scry, just to have some idea of where she would be going. After so long she could not even be sure who had broken the little disc. Sodden, her megascope showed her, she would be going to Sodden. Everything was mayhem and destruction there only a few months after the battle. She packed a few necessities, trekked beyond the perimeter of her wards and teleported away.

Staying well clear of big events like this she had not participated in any of them. Common folk had for the most part not even been able to tell her much about who had won the battle. Nor did she care much. It would all be the same for them anyway. One ruler or the other would make no real difference; young men would still be press-ganged into armies and the wealthy never had much concern for feeding the press-ganged soldiers' families once the winter rolled around.

In the grander scheme of things it never mattered who won. Humanity would continue as always. And old women like her would continue to shake their heads at it all.

She came out of her portal between the trees, where the amulet lay. Discarded, it seemed, but broken – its signal sent and spent. Picking it up yielded no clue as to who might have broken it.

Looking around she saw a pyre. One that should not have been there. Funeral pyres for the soldiers of the battle would have burned for weeks, but the grizzly task ought to have been completed by now. Instinct told her the lone pyre would have something to do with her having been called here.

True enough. Mutely staring at that pyre was a young boy. Dirty, dejected and clearly in shock, he was. And though he was a fair bit bigger than when she had last seen him – unrecognizable as such, really – there was still no mistaking those features. He should be away from this place as soon as possible; it was far too exposed. She approached him cautiously.

* * *

“Here you go, dear. It'll do you good.” The witch handed him a steaming mug of tea. “And when you're ready, tell me what happened.”

Eston nodded mutely, unable to take his eyes off the barrels they had brought back with them. He was lost. This lady said she would help him, but he had no real idea who she was. Only very vague memories of having seen – or maybe only heard – her speaking to his parents told him that she was speaking the truth, when she claimed to have known the family.

“You find it hard to trust me.” The old woman's voice was kind. “It's understandable. Don't you worry, my dear, I've seen many children on their way. In fact, I delivered you, though I doubt you'll recall that.”

“I... remember your voice. I think,” Eston slowly divulged. “I think, I heard you talking to my parents, when I was very little.”

“Really? You have memories of that?” He nodded in confirmation of her surprised-sounding question. “That's impressive. You can't have been more than two or three years old at the time. At the most.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I haven't seen your parents since you were that little. They've kept well hidden. Probably to protect you. And I have respected their wish to not be found, so I haven't tried.”

Again Eston could only nod as he tried to take in the information. Her actions had definitely looked like she cared. The mug of tea in his hands had cooled to a suitable temperature for drinking and he sniffed it cautiously.

“It's just a herbal infusion, dear. It'll serve to calm your nerves and sharpen your mind. We need you to think clearly in order to decide what to do next?”

Confusion froze his hands holding the mug below his nose. “Decide?”

“Of course. You didn't think I wouldn't let you have a say, did you?”

“Uhh maybe? I don't know. I didn't think. It all happened so fast.”

“I know, dear.” She patted his knee reassuringly. “Drink your tea. Gather your thoughts. Then we'll talk.” She got up from the footrest she had been sitting on and left him alone in the room.

Eston sniffed the tea again and decided there was nothing about it that smelled wrong. He took a careful sip of the hot drink. Mint was not his favourite.

His eyes were once again drawn to the two small barrels. They were sitting on the dining table looking ordinary and unimportant. He shuddered and looked away as the feelings of panic began to well up in him again.

Closing his eyes he focused on the sounds instead. The big chair beneath him creaked slightly, when he squirmed in it to get more comfortable. He drew his legs up to sit cross-legged in it. He could disappear in this chair. Maybe disappearing was not a bad idea. He wanted to.

It was windy here. Not like where they had come from. The wind murmured round the eaves and gusts made the roof beams groan slightly. He shivered and took another sip of tea. And another. There was no fire in the fireplace in the corner. It left him slightly cold but also a bit relieved. The tea was a good enough source of warmth.

Beyond the door he could hear the witch walking, stopping, moving things, walking again. He could not recall what was in the room on the other side of the door. He had been too upset to take note of anything, when they passed through it. Then she had plopped him down in the chair and left only briefly to make him that mug of tea. He drank the rest of it, still listening for her footsteps.

He could hear the quiet metallic rumble of a lit stove. The sound had not reached his ears before, but it had to have been there; his tea was evidence enough. He opened his eyes and looked into the mug. It was empty, and the clay was now rapidly cooling in his hands.

Talking. She meant to help him, she said, but Eston had no idea what help to ask for. Talking was probably a good place to start. Like she said. He got up and without looking at the kegs he headed through the door to the next room in search of the witch. And maybe some more tea. Without mint.

This time he did not pay the room much mind either, because he saw the back of the woman as she passed through the other door. He hurried after her into the kitchen.

“Oh, there you are. Feeling up to a talk now, dear?” Her kind tone had not at all changed.

“Uhh yes, miss. I was wondering, is there any more tea?”

“Of course. Though I don't think overusing that particular brew is a good idea. How about I make us a nice pot to share?”

Eston nodded eagerly and the woman put a kettle on the stove.

There was a question burning in his mind. “Why are you helping me?”

She turned to him and smiled. “Because a long time ago, your mother helped me; helped me a very great deal, in fact. She never asked for anything in return. Helping you now is the least I can do.”

“Oh,” Eston turned the information over in his head several times, but he came up short. He had never heard his mother say anything about helping a witch like this one and he had to ask. “What did my mum help you with?”

“I'm afraid that's rather private, dear. Oh, don't look like that, I don't fault you for asking. I am simply not going to answer that question.”

Relieved that she was not going to be harsh with him, Eston continued: “What'll happen now?”

“That depends entirely on what we want to happen. Will you take a suggestion?”

She was asking him; really just asking. He nodded.

“There's warm water in the basin over there. You've got dirt and ash everywhere. While waiting for the tea water to boil you could wash yourself. I'm sure I can find some suitable clothes for you somewhere here.”

He thought it was stupid to worry about cleanliness after all that had happened, but the way she raised her eyebrows while she spoke made him reconsider any initial reluctance. He had probably dirtied up her chair pretty badly, now that he really thought about it. Pulling his tunic over his head he walked to the far corner of the kitchen. There was a basin – he tried the water with his hand, it was warm as she had promised, but not scalding – a block of soap and a strange sponge lay next to it.

With his tunic in his hand he realised how dirty it really was; and how dirty he was. He really should wash, his skin was itchy all over. Suddenly shy, he looked over his shoulder, back at the witch, but she had turned her back on him and seemed to be preparing another infusion for their tea. He quickly shimmied out of his boots and trousers, too, and began washing.

He stiffened, when he heard the witch move, and once again he looked over his shoulder at her. She still had her back turned and stood in the doorway to the front room. “I'm going to go find something for you to wear. There's a towel hanging by the door next to you.”

Eston almost cried and he did not know why. He felt ridiculous. After everything that had happened, he worried about this lady, who knew his parents, seeing him naked. Silly. He finished washing, and by the time the witch returned to the kitchen he had wrapped himself in the towel and was trying to mask his sniffles as attempts to clear out his nose.

“All done, dear?” Her voice sounded from the door. “I've got some clothes for you here. Probably a bit big, but they'll do until we've washed your own. And we can get you new ones if need be.”

“Thank you. Yes,” he answered and padded over to her, leaving wet foot prints on the flagstones. She looked at him then and handed him a pile of folded clothes.

“You do clean up nicely,” she said and ruffled his hair. “I think you'll come to look quite a bit like your father. You have his eyes and nose.”

Eston grinned at her and turned his side to her. “But my mum's ears and jaw. See? At least they always told me that.”

“They weren't lying.” The warm smile reached all the way to her eyes and despite everything it made him feel better. “Now, get dressed, young man. The tea will be ready soon, and we have a lot to talk about.” She took the kettle from the stove and poured the boiling water over the tea leaves. No hint of mint in the scent, Eston noted with satisfaction.

Once again she left the kitchen and him alone to get dressed. He appreciated the privacy. If he were to stay here with her, he probably would not get much of it. Her house did not seem very big.

Dressed in trousers, a tunic and a pair of woollen socks that were all too big for him, he went back into her dining room. The pair of barrels were gone, and one end of the dining table was set with tea mugs and a pair of plates. The witch patted the seat of the chair next to her. He climbed onto it, but had a hard time reaching his mug.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” she said. “This place really isn't furnished with children in mind. Just a moment.” She got up and took two large books from a bookcase in the corner. “They will have to do until I think of something better. Please be careful with them.”

He nodded and slid down from the chair again to let her place the books on the seat.

“Come here.” She gestured that he turn his back, and then she lifted him into the now raised seat. Now he could reach his mug and immediately went for a sip. Her teas were much better than anything his mum made; even the minty one.

“Now,” she started as she buttered a round biscuit-like thing and handed it to him, “have a crumpet and then tell me everything that happened.”

Eston did the best he could, trying to recall everything that might be important. He told her about his parents' mission, or at least what little he had eavesdropped about it. Something about finding a home. The witch asked him a few questions to clarify. He had heard them discussing portals and magic; had even seen them experiment with some, too.

People did not seem to like that much, because they had been attacked by a large mob of people, some of them soldiers. His parents had. Not him. He had been sitting on a hill some ways away, because they did not want him near their magical experiments. He admitted to having been angry at being left out. But when the mob came he could hide. Nobody even thought to look for him it seemed. She quizzed him thoroughly on this. Whether he was absolutely certain nobody had seen him. He could only tell her what he thought, which was that nobody knew he existed.

He had sat there, hidden and able to watch as they overwhelmed his parents, bound them and... his voice broke before he could finish that part of the story. Instead he found himself enveloped in the witch's arms and pulled into her lap. And then he could not hold it back anymore.

“There, there.” She rocked him gently.

“Why didn't they fight back? They could've fought. I know they could!”

“I can't say for certain, my dear, but I imagine they knew that if they did fight back, it would only mean a larger mob the next time. And that would endanger you as well.”

“Then why couldn't we all just stay hidden together?”

“Finding that home was very important to them. They believed very strongly that they had to do it. They were already searching back when I knew them,” she told him.

“But now they're gone! What will happen to me now?” He sobbed into the front of her dress as she held him.

“You can stay with me for as long as you want. Until you feel ready to set out on your own. If you have some other family that you would like me to find, then I will try and find them for you. I will help you in any way, I can, Eston.”

“You know magic. Can't you bring them back?”

“I'm afraid not, dear. You have no idea how much I wish I could, but I cannot. All I can do for you and them is inter their remains in a safe place.”

“I don't want them buried! I want them alive!”

“I know, my child, I know. And I'm terribly sorry. So very, very sorry.”

Eston cried and cried; cried until he was empty inside and a dreamless sleep overcame him.

* * *

She was so relieved that he had finally cried. She had not really needed to know all that much about events. Some of it she already knew, because Arria and Teitu had told her about their plans at length, back when they still kept in touch. Some of it she could deduce, because she did after all walk frequently among people and see their distrust of anything out of the ordinary. And some of her questions were entirely irrelevant to the boy's future. No, what had been important was getting him to talk about it. It was the best known way of preventing trauma from settling in and becoming a problem further along. And for one so young to see his parents burned alive – well, she should be ever so lucky if she could prevent all ill effects of the trauma. They were certain to be there. She would do what she could to lessen them, even if he might resent her for making him talk about the terrible events a lot these first few days.

It had taken a hard enough toll on him, what he had seen and done by the pyre. Being subtle about it had been important, and manipulating fire was not something she was particularly adept at, so she had settled for slowly, quietly, drawing moisture into the air to suffocate the flames. It took a long time and left her winded and far from finished. Once the pyre had been put out she had had to dig through the ashes. Thankfully she knew what to look for, and those two very recognizable skulls had to be removed from the ashen pile of remains. How many people had been burned there, she wondered to herself. She had not had the time to count; only to note that a considerable number had died in the flames. It had not been funeral pyre. More than likely it had been whatever 'undesirables' had been rounded up; magic-users, non-humans – and probably a few unfortunate Nilfgaardians, too, if Eston's account of the soldiers' uniform colours had been accurate. She assumed it to be. He was a remarkably observant boy, though that was hardly a surprise with parents like Arria and Teitu.

To keep him busy and active she had sent him off to look for two crates. Somewhere in the mess that was an abandoned battlefield there had to be crates from the army supplies, and it was not a thing people was likely to loot. He had done even better. He had found two small empty kegs, perhaps from a dwarven company, they certainly looked of dwarven make. And he had calmly explained his reasoning; something that had been made to contain a liquid had to be better sealed.

Not only that, he had also been quicker about it than she had expected, and so he had returned, while she was still filtering through the ashes. She would have preferred that he not see the charred state his parents' remains had been in, but he had been too quick for that to be avoided. Even then the brave boy had simply set the kegs down and asked if he should help.

She shook her head at the memory, as she had shaken her head at him earlier. She would use her magic to make sure that they got every single shred of remains there was to get – no more and no less – so that they would not end up with restless spirits, who did not know where to go. He had looked at her with large eyes and nodded in understanding. Though she had urged him to look away from the charred remains, he had kept mutely watching over the slow process, as she meticulously sorted her friends' ashes and charred bones into two separate barrels originally meant for liquor.

Now the boy was lying in her bed, eyes red and puffy from the tears and sniffling slightly in his sleep.

At least she knew what to do. She might not have had younglings in her care for several decades, but some things you never forget. And she had delivered the boy into this world. She could deliver him through this crisis as well.

The longer perspective was harder. She would have to look into a lot of new things, if she were to help him, however. If he was anything like his parents it would not take him long to decide to take up their mantle and attempt to carry on their mission. She would need to be prepared for that to the best of her ability, which unfortunately was sorely lacking. Hopefully she could convince him to grow up in relative obscurity with her before doing anything of the sort. His heritage was far too dangerous to let loose upon the world without thorough guidance, and she had no idea how to guide it. Well, maybe some idea, but not enough. Not nearly enough.

 


	6. Chapter 4

Letho trudged through the muddy swamps of Ebbing. With every step his mood was dragged down into a murky sludge similar to that which currently seeped through and filled his boots. He really needed a bath; and more than just the perfunctory kind he had made do with since he left Kaer Morhen about a year ago. Five years of peace and relative quiet in return for looking after an old ruin; he had figured it to be a luxurious stay. In some respects it had been just that. No bounty hunters breathing down his neck had definitely been the high point, but honourable mention must go to the auburn-haired beauty showing up to visit once in a while. Merigold had been nervous around him at first, and he couldn't blame her, but after a couple of years, with no harm coming to anyone by his hand, she finally started believing Geralt's assurances of good behaviour.

It had been a sweet relief, when the air no longer started crackling, whenever Letho came near her during one of her visits to the old keep. They had never become friendly, but even just the tense amicability they had arrived at would have been welcome entertainment right now. All that offered itself, unfortunately, was yet another bubble of foul-smelling swamp gas breaking the surface of the muck with a slow burp.

Letho grunted. He had known all along that he would have to leave. It probably was for the best anyway. He had taken Geralt up on his offer and gone to Kaer Morhen to lie low. The man had a curious notion of what it meant to lie low, but he was not about to complain. Showing up the Wild Hunt like that had been fun – even if it had cost them, but what was that to him? Yet another witcher dead like so many others. Letho had lost three of his own brethren over the past seven or so years, what difference would the death of a single witcher from another school make? He looked behind him at the still surface of the mire, as the last light of the autumn day shone on the matte surface. Probably about as much of a difference as his passing through these swamps made.

Like the past few nights he found a willow, whose roots had created an island in the muck. It would be an uncomfortable position, but it would be somewhat more dry than everywhere else in the mire. By his best estimate it would be the last night spent in this place. Unfortunately, the village he was expecting to find on the other side, after his errand was done, would probably be incapable of producing a tub so he could get a good, long soak. He looked down at his thoroughly soaked trousers and boots; a clean soak, even. That would be lovely. Maybe a woman, too. Even lovelier.

As he settled in for another poor night's rest, Letho found himself rating this experience below even that one time, when Merigold had walked in on him bathing. It had taken over a week for the pain to fade, but the enraged look on her mortified face had been priceless. Almost, anyway. Good enough for him to amuse himself with as he drifted off.

His calculations proved correct. He emerged from the swamp exactly where he expected in a mood about as foul as the stench that clung to his clothes. Letho hated the idea of wrapping himself up in the curtain of all things foul that his cloak had become, but he did not want to risk being recognised, and with six years having come and gone, he had no idea what his chances were now that he was nearing his usual turf. That was high on the list of things he needed to find out, but for now he needed to secure some finances first.

He had only to wait half a day before the lone traveller, who matched the description given to him, showed up around the bend. A chance meeting by the looks of it, though nothing could be further from the truth.

“Hail, traveller,” the peddler greeted him. Like any good salesman the man brought his horse and wagon to a halt the moment he saw Letho turn towards him.

“Hail,” Letho answered with the kind of skepticism a peddler of this ilk would expect to be met with.

“Might I interest you in my wares?”

“Depends on what kind of wares you got.” Letho just had to make sure this was the right one. It was unlikely to find another one on the same road at the same time matching the same description, but it never hurt to be certain.

“Little bit of this, little bit of that. Looking for anything in particular, good sir?”

“Hmmm, got anything unique?”

“Ahhh, a discerning customer, I see. How refreshing.” Letho didn't miss the skeptical once-over the peddler gave him, as the merchant left his rural accent behind and took on a more posh air. “I'm afraid anything unique would be outside of your price range.”

“See, that's real funny, seeing as you don't exactly look the type to be worrying about price ranges at all.” Letho smiled conspiratorially to the man. “You ain't the only one keeping your head down these days.”

“Very astute,” the merchant drily remarked. “I suppose you mean to tell me, you can pay?”

“Naturally,”Letho drawled, “I just need to know whether you have what I want.”

“And what do you want? I have many interesting items for sale. New. Unique, too.”

“Yeah, I'm not interested in the uniquely useless. Nor new. Let's say I'm in the market for previously owned goods.”

“Ahh, I see. So, you have an appreciation for items with a history.” The peddler didn't see much, though. At least he didn't see it, when Letho used the distraction of the merchant's exaggerated thoughtfulness to direct a subtle Aard in the direction of the wagon wheel. Should the peddler attempt to flee, the spokes would break within a few yards. Tragic accidents were so common these days.

“Yeah, got anything that'll serve to make connections where none exist?”

“You mean with names?”

“Or similar. Monograms, stamps, signets, initials, anything.” Letho confirmed. “Preferably with some wealth or importance attached to them.”

The merchant cackled softly to himself. “Pardon my saying so, but you don't look the type to have blackmail as a preferred method.”

“Am not,” Letho acknowledged. “But I work for people who do. And I frankly don't give a shit, how they come by the gold for my paycheck.”

“I think I may have just the thing, then.” The merchant got up from his seat with a pleased smile and reached back into the wagon and into a small chest. When he turned back to Letho he held up a medallion, showing him the back of it and the pair of initials engraved in the precious metal. It was exactly what Letho was looking for, and he only partially listened, when the unsuspecting merchant continued on: “It's part of a set, and I'm afraid I can't part with it for any less th-,” the man was rudely interrupted when the horse suddenly whinnied in alarm and took off with wagon, peddlar and goods.

Letho watched with faint amusement as the wagon careened first along the road then off the road with a broken wheel. He muttered a quiet apology to the horse for spooking it with Igni like that, though he figured the animal would be fine. The medallion the merchant had shown him lay on the road. He picked it up – it would be his proof of a deed well done. Leaving no tracks of any significance he followed the wagon to its final stop, he still needed a couple of items to fulfill his contractual obligations. The merchant was stuck under the capsized wagon and was struggling to keep his face above water in the marshy terrain where they had landed. The horse was struggling to free itself from its torn and twisted harness, Letho let it. It was doing a fine job of getting the wagon even more stuck in the marsh in the process.

He stood over the merchant and watched the man's ever more feeble struggles as exhaustion slowly drained his strength. “I'd tell you to let this be a lesson to you, but I'm afraid my client wasn't interested in that.”

The merchant only blubbered in response. It was difficult to tell how much of it was out of fear and how much of it was just water in his mouth, but Letho didn't give a toss. He stepped over the gasping man and found the most secure-looking chest from the wagon's load and went through its contents. Sure enough, he found the remainder of the heirlooms with the initials and monogram that the well-paying minor noble had told him to look for. He was in luck; all the missing items were accounted for. The thief had not had the opportunity to sell any of them yet apparently. Not that buyers for such wares would be plentiful here in the backwater areas of Ebbing, but still, shady characters such as himself might have been passing through. Luck favoured him this day. It had better, after that swampy trek to get here first.

Letho gathered only a few more items for himself, nothing that anyone would notice would be missing. It could not under any circumstance look like the robbery and assassination it really was. And it was reasonably paid, too, so he could afford to leave most of the goods on the wagon for others to find. For all intents and purposes it would look like a tragic accident. Or at least it would if the damned peddler would have the good manners to just die. Letho could not leave until he was sure no one could save the now quickly weakening thief. Besides, he would probably have to return in a few days anyway on a contract ro get rid of whichever necrophages would show up for the corpse. They would show up for certain; their numbers had multiplied immensely during wartime, as they were wont to do.

He jumped back into the muck, next to where the man lay. Panic was one hell of a drug. He was still breathing if only barely struggling now.

“P-please,” the man gurgled.

“Don't think so,” Letho replied. “The rightful owner of those items you would sell me did not appreciate parting with his goods without a say.”

“B-but you c-could l-let m-...” the thief tried again.

Letho did not care to hear anymore from the soon-to-be-dead man. “He especially didn't appreciate how you also raped his youngest, when you robbed their manor. You really shouldn't have done that.”

He would never deny he liked the look in the eyes of a victim, when they finally gave up all hope of negotiating for his mercy. Especially so when mercy was the last thing they deserved.

“The only reason I knew to come after you was because you couldn't keep your paws to yourself, you filthy animal. You left a single person able to give a perfect description of you, you couldn't even manage to get simple murder right.”

It was a cheap thrill, he knew, but when that poor imitation of pond scum in human form saw the last of his hopes dashed it still gave Letho a sweet sense of satisfaction. It deepened, when he gently – careful to not cause any telling injuries – pushed the man's face below the surface of the marsh water and let the last thing he saw be his own malicious smirk. He knew the effect it had on people.

The deed was done and Letho returned into the marshes, where he kept watch to see if the horse did manage to tear itself loose. It did. It would serve just fine to let someone know to come looking for its owner. The news of the peddler's demise would reach his employer before he intended to make it back there. That was all the proof they would need of this part of the contract being fulfilled.

Finally, he could double back along his original path through the marshes, though he would diverge from it soon enough. Another day of hurried, soggy trudging would put him safely on the other side of the village, where he intended to spend a couple of days eating hot meals and sleeping in a dry bed. This way he could enter it from an entirely non-suspicious direction, and after a few days of rest he could hopefully also get the contract for whatever might be lured by the peddler's corpse.

* * *

The village seemed poorer than Letho remembered it. Perhaps it should not surprise him. He had not been here for more than ten years. War takes its toll everywhere and two of them had come an gone in relatively short order. Three, he corrected himself. This far South the Northern Wars counted three, and this place had been no exception to the consequences. The most obvious tell Letho could immediately spot were the meagre numbers of able-bodied men between the ages of fifteen and forty. Everything was just as it was in all those other places, where people were too poor to buy their way out of conscription or into the safer branches of the armies of Nilfgaard.

Whether it would be to his benefit remained to be seen. They would probably be happy to take his money, the question was whether they would have anything to sell him. He headed towards the little inn hoping it would still have rooms for hire; or even just a bed. He got the usual nervous glances along the way, even without letting anyone see his eyes, people still shied away from his bulk. Most of the time it was useful, but right now he hoped it would not prevent the innkeeper from dealing with him.

Luck was on his side. Again. The innkeeper's interest in having a paying customer was far greater than his apprehension in dealing with a witcher. There was a room available. It had a dry, warm bed, which was plenty good enough for Letho, and though food supplies did not allow the innkeep to serve delicacies, the solid fare he could provide was hot and well-seasoned, which was more than could be said of the rations Letho had subsisted on for nearly a week.

His predictions turned out correct, too. He had spent three days helping out some of the villagers with things the men of the village would normally handle, but with the dearth of men still able to do hard labour, only the most necessary things got done. Food acquisition was prioritized, naturally, and the condition of the buildings showed exactly how harsh a prioritization that had to be. After the first day of just sitting in the inn, waiting for news of the peddler's 'accident', and wandering through the village to find a clear space, where he could go through his training routines, he began hearing discussions.

They were discussions concerning him, when people thought he was out of earshot. After two days of this, during which he pretended not to notice anything, finally a trio of young men, no, boys came to him. He would bet good money that not a single one of them was older than twelve. They were going against the advice of their elders in coming to him, but, as the tallest of them explained, they no longer cared. Waiting for everyone else to secure food for the winter would not fix the leaks in their roofs; would not keep their families warm and secure. So now they wanted to know if the few handfuls of coin they had gathered between them would be enough for him to help them with some heavy lifting.

Before agreeing to anything, Letho decided to sate his curiosity first. He had the time, and he did not really need the coin anyway. Well, he needed coin, but not badly enough to consider the absolute pittance they could offer him. No, he wanted to hear their reasoning. It was simple, really. Their elders who could no longer do much physical work had taught them how to repair a roof, but the only people with the strength to maneuvre the wooden beams were busy; extremely busy, as they would have to help feed the entire village, including those families whose menfolk had not returned from the war, as well as those who had returned unable to do much work.

The three boys, two of whom were brothers, had decided that cold, leaky huts would soon make food superfluous for their families anyway, so they had to be fixed, and now they wanted to buy a witcher's time for this somewhat unusual task. Letho chuckled darkly, when they referenced what the elders had said about what witchers did and did not do. It was not entirely inaccurate, but there was no reason to tell the boys that.

After five years of puttering about and fixing things up at Kaer Morhen, he was fairly skilled at carpentry. Truthfully, most witchers were, because there were no one else they could turn to to repair their homes, but after the Vipers abandoned their school and took to the roads permanently, they had not exactly focused on maintaining those skills. Letho had refreshed his memory thoroughly while working alongside Geralt up North, and he had come to outright enjoy the silent, working companionship with the white-haired witcher. He could help out the boys. It would give him something to do while waiting.

For two days he helped them out with the things they did not have the strength for. He did notice the timid glances of their mothers and younger siblings. He also saw the spiteful glares of their grandparents. The boys had decided not to pass judgment and go against their elders, outright ignoring their opinions. That had to take some courage, so he honoured the children by likewise ignoring the distrustful glances sent his way. He did not say much and instead let them talk. One of the boys were exactly twelve years old; the oldest in his group of siblings. His brother, who was also helping out, was a mere nine years old. Their cousin whose family's hut they also repaired was ten. The mother of the oldest boy was the sister of the missing father from the other family. As with most villagers they had far more siblings than a family without a working father could feed, and the boys were trying hard to rise to the task. Letho did not predict bright futures for any of them.

He only helped them with the heavy lifting, getting beams into place and establishing ridge and rafters. The thatching was still tough work, but did not require quite as much strength. They insisted they would do that themselves, as they could not pay him for helping with everything. Letho did not push the issue and never meant to tell them he would not take their coin. Two sets of rafters were ready for thatching after a mere two days of work. It was good the huts were so small or they would not have finished, when finally the news he had been waiting for arrived.

The ealdorman predictably approached him about what the traveller reported. First a dead horse – apparently the beast had not managed to find a human, before something got its claws in it – and then the wagon beset by ugly, spiked horrors, and a body stuck underneath it. Sounded like a pair of alghouls in Letho's ears. The traveller had not stuck around to get a closer look. For a commoner absolutely the wiser choice. For Letho it would be a piece of cake. They agreed upon a price. It was somewhat below what he would normally charge, but the villagers did not have anything else to give. For once it did not sound like a lie either, so he accepted the contract and set out.

A day later he returned with proof of the demise of three alghouls and his 'conclusion' that something must have spooked the horse – perhaps the alghouls themselves – and the merchant, for that was what he was, had drowned, stuck underneath the wagon. Letho had buried him and made sure no more necrophages would be drawn to the corpse. He suggested to the ealdorman that they send a few boys and a cart to pick up any remaining goods that might still be worth salvaging from the merchant wagon as it had not looked like it belonged to a merchant house anywhere. They followed his advice.

The innkeeper received the announcement of his imminent departure with obvious relief at no longer having a witcher staying in his establishment, though the man was probably also sad to see a source of steady income go. Letho ordered trail rations to last him a week and a half, to be ready well before dawn. He intended to take a bit of a detour before heading back to his original contractor, and he would leave early.

When he rose the next morning and opened his door, he was greeted by the soft snoring of a small child curled up on the planks at his feet, wrapped in a woollen blanket. The little boy smelled faintly of chamomile, lemon balm and valerian. Someone had made certain he would remain sleeping until Letho woke up. He crouched next to the child. The boy looked healthy if a bit scrawny, and he was clutching a rolled up piece of paper in his left hand. Letho gently pried the letter from the small fist, not wanting the boy to wake just yet.

  
  


_Witcher_

_My sons told me how you left without the coin they promised you. The ealdorman, who is writing this letter for me, told me how you accepted a much lower reward for the monsters than you might._

_We all know that witchers take children as reward instead, when coin is scarce. We beg that you do not steal any children from us and instead take my youngest son with you. We have more mouths than we can feed, and you have proven yourself reliable and honourable. I believe he may have a better chance in life with you than with us. He is three years old this past summer and young enough that he might not even remember us after a while. He is a good boy, and I know you will do right by him._

_The innkeeper has kindly agreed to supply rations for two rather than just yourself. Please accept this as payment in full for your services rendered._

_Marejke_

  
  


Letho glanced at the pack of rations the innkeep had left for him at the door. It did indeed look bigger than expected. He had no idea what to do with this. No one had ever left a child to him, nor had he ever invoked the Law of Surprise. He did not like surprises. This one included. What was he supposed to do with a child? There was no school to bring it to, no one to teach the boy. He briefly considered Kaer Morhen, but only Geralt and his daughter had been back there regularly. As far as he could tell, the only reason the pissy one had returned was because his lady sorceress needed a secluded place to work. That one definitely would not be interested in taking in another child, nor in making more witchers. Letho had left not long after they had shown up. The other one he had not seen at all since they cremated the old witcher. While that one might be a bit more open to the idea, Letho would have no idea where to find him. No, the last remaining witcher school had been disbanded and he was on his own with this boy. He knew his luck had to run out. It had been going too well.

He let the child sleep and packed his things. He wanted to get as far away as possible, before the boy woke up. He had no idea what reaction he might expect; panic would be a hassle, but even just grief and tears would be a problem in the wilds, where Letho did not want to draw attention to his passing. If only he had brought his horse, it would have been slightly easier, but the beast remained stabled with the nobleman who sent him on this mission in the first place. It would not have been of much use for his passage through the swamps, and so he had resolved to retrieve it again, when he returned with the re-acquired heirlooms. Right now he wished he had laid a plan that had not required him to leave his horse behind.

There was nothing to do about it. He had to put some distance between himself and the village before the boy woke up. The rations prepared for them by the innkeep smelled better than he expected, he noticed, when he packed them with the rest of the few belongings he had taken with him.

The boy was still sleeping soundly, when Letho picked up the bundle of boy and blanket and snuck out of the inn. The village was not yet up, though he did hear the innkeep shuffling about in the kitchen, pointedly not entering the common room and giving Letho all the space he needed to leave unobserved. He noticed a few cautious faces peering from a window here and there, but no one entered the street, nor even acknowledged his presence.

He had walked maybe a hundred yards out of the village, when he sensed a presence some distance behind him. Turning around he could see a single figure standing in the dim light of early dawn at the outskirts of the village. The mother, Marejke. Letho recognised her from when he had helped the boys repair those roofs. She raised a hand in greeting and despite the distance his sharp hearing caught her soft sniffle. He raised his own hand to return the salute, and he saw a second figure join her. The size revealed it to be the eldest of the boys; not quite as tall as his mother, and still with the lanky build of a boy.

Bowing in their direction was the only way he could think to let them know that all accounts were settled. They were more than that, but he could not convey that without words. Before he turned back to the road he intended to travel, he saw the twelve-year-old comfort his mother with a hug. With a little luck his new ward's older brother would grow up quickly enough for the family to be alright. He hoped so.

* * *

It had taken a few more hours for the boy to wake from the herb-induced sleep. By that time they were far from the village as well as the road. Letho did not want to risk anyone overhearing the boy's reaction to having been taken from his home like this. What had possessed those people to think it was a good idea to just leave the boy with him like this? Did the boy know or even suspect anything? Letho had pondered those questions along the way and ended up concluding that the villagers had probably expected him to refuse to take the boy if they presented the deal to his face. They would have been right. He had no need for an apprentice, or whatever the hell the boy would be under the circumstances. And he was only two; much too young to be travelling the roads with a witcher, but Letho had no school to take him to.

Now, in a small make-shift shelter in a copse of trees the boy was stirring, and Letho braced himself for handling a very unhappy kid. A soft drizzle of rain had begun falling and muffled all sounds in the constant pitter-patter from the leaf hang.

When the boy opened his eyes and blinked sleepily, Letho remained quietly crouched by his side, awaiting a reaction. The child looked around, confused, disoriented.

“G'morning, kid.”

“Huh? Where's mama? And Kees?”

“Back in the village. They're safe. And so are you.”

A pair of trusting grey eyes sought his own. Apparently any hysterics were slow in the coming. “You're the one helped fix the roof.”

“I did. So now your family will stay warm in winter.”

“That's good.” The boy nodded sagely, clearly impersonating someone else. Then he looked at their surroundings a bit more closely. “This roof needs fixing, too.” He pointed at a spot, where a few drops were slowly making their way along the underside of a branch.

“Yeah, kid, it does. But this was all I had the time for, before the rain came.”

“Oh. You're a witcherman, right?”

“A witcher,” Letho corrected him, “Yeah, I am.”

“What's that mean? My gran said you're a monster, but you're not. You fixed the roof with Kees and mama was so happy she cried.”

“Means I help people with some of their problems. Problems people can't fix on their own.”

“Why are we not at home? Roof is fixed now.”

“Because it's not home for me.” _Nor is it for you, anymore._ Letho had no idea how to break that bit of news to the boy.

“Are we going to your home? Is it far?”

“No. I don't have a home.” This was turning out easier than expected so far. The kid was inquisitive. With a bit of luck and the right answers, there might never be any hysterics.

“That's not good. Everyone should have a home. Why don't you have one?”

“I guess you might say the road is my home. I travel.”

The boy's eyes widened. “Really? Have you been everywhere, then?”

Letho chuckled. “Not quite, kid.”

“But... almost everywhere, then?”

“N- huh, yeah, let's just say almost everywhere.”

The grey eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Have you seen the sea?”

“Yeah, I've seen the sea.”

“And the mountains? We can see them under the sunrise if the weather's good. Have you been to them?”

Letho smiled slightly at how the child was testing for lies. It was an honest effort. “Yeah. I have. It's a long way off. Lots a walking. Or riding, if you have a horse.”

“Do you have a horse?”

“Not here. But where we're going next, I do.” And he was pleased to note that the drizzle was slowly dying off. They might not get completely soaked after all. He had his cloak, but all the boy had was his clothes and the woolen blanket he was wrapped in still. Letho would need to do something about that as soon as possible.

“Are you taking me with you?”

“Yeah, kid, you're coming with me.”

“But what about mama? And Kees and the others?”

“They'll be fine. Fixed their roof, remember?”

The boy nodded. “But why?”

Letho had debated with himself what reasons he would give the boy should he ask, and had decided he would give him the truth. Or at least a part of it. Gently. If possible. “Because even with a fixed roof, your mama didn't have food enough for everyone, so she wanted me to make sure you got everything you needed.”

Oh, there we go. The boy's eyes got watery and his lower lip quivered, but he was putting on a brave face. “Is this...” he sniffled, “like in the stories? You'll leave me to the wolves?”

“'Course not, kid. I'm talking to ya, ain't I?”

The boy pondered that for a bit and then nodded. “So you won't leave me alone? Or... eat me?”

Letho had to laugh.“Ain't nobody gonna be eaten here. Or left alone. You'll be fine. kid.”

A few more sniffles and then he wiped his eyes. “Where will you take me?”

“At first? Nearby town. Did a job a for a man there, and he will pay me for it next time I pass through. That's where we'll go. It's where my horse is stabled, too.”

“Can I ride your horse with you?”

“Absolutely. Unless you think you can run as fast as the horse, you're gonna have to ride it with me.” Letho winked at him, trying to lift his spirits a bit. It worked, because the boy did laugh a bit. It was cautious and uncertain, but it was a laugh. He was beginning to form an idea of what the boy was like. This might actually work out after all.

“Will you show me the sea? And the mountains?”

“You bet. And much more besides.”

“Will I ever see them again?”

“Maybe. You can never predict, where the road might lead you.” He didn't want to promise anything, and the boy just nodded.

Letho waited to see if any further questions were forthcoming, but it seemed his new ward had run out of ideas for the moment.

“Get up, kid. We've got a long walk ahead of us. Several days. And we're not getting any closer to my horse by sitting around.”

He folded the blanket around, so it wouldn't drag along the wet ground, when the boy walked. Then, after having had a closer look at the boy's boots, he changed his mind. He would need to carry him. There was no way they would ever keep out the water, and a cold three-year old with blistered feet was not high on Letho's list of favourite things.

“Alright, let's see if we can't wrap you up in this blanket, while I carry you. Make it a little easier for you to hold on.”

“Can't I just ride on your back? Like piggyback?”

“My swords are in the way.” Letho indicated the two long blades that were currently leaning against the tree trunk. The boy's eyes widened, he must not have noticed them before.

“Y- you kill things?”

“Yeah. That's the kind of problems I usually fix for people. I kill things. And when you're big enough, you're gonna learn how to kill things, too.”

The wide eyes that looked at him revealed a mixture of fear and awe. “Me?”

“Yeah, you.”

“You're gonna teach me to kill things?”

“Not yet, but eventually, yeah.” Letho folded a make-shift sling of the blanket and with an end of rope he would secure it around his shoulders. Then he knelt down and held the sling out for the boy. “Here, kid, step in.” The boy complied without thinking, still keeping his stunned gaze square on Letho's face.

The boy's voice was very quiet, when he spoke again. It was accompanied by a small hand on Letho's bald scalp, which he had just given the child a free view of. “Is this from killing things?”

He hoisted the boy up in the sling settling him against his chest. This would leave his hands free, though he really hoped he wouldn't land in any kind of crisis in his current predicament. His movement would be severely restricted by having a child resting on his chest.

“Yeah.” Answering the boy's questions seemed to keep him calm, so Letho indulged him. “Sometimes the things are trying to kill you right back.”

Letho heard the boy swallow a lump, and felt his little hands ball into fists against his leathers.

“Relax, kid, you ain't gonna face anything bad until I teach you how to handle it.”

“You think I can learn?”

Letho nodded. “Sure.” He halted for a moment, because he had originally meant to give the boy a name and let him forget his own, but something drove him to ask anyway. “What's your name, kid?”

“Ijsbrand.”

Letho grinned. Perhaps there was more to this meeting than just a family with too many mouths to feed. “That's a good name for a witcher, kid. A real good name.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, Ijsbrand. It is.”

 


End file.
